


Obduration

by fairmaidofkent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmaidofkent/pseuds/fairmaidofkent
Summary: Sequel to Vacillation. Over a decade after the Malfoys believe they've found lasting peace together in a war-torn world, the Dark Lord begins his inexorable return to power and rends their family apart. Even if they all escape with their lives, can their love survive the trauma?
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 26
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

_Saturday, 2 July 1994_

"The Quidditch World Cup is being held on Dartmoor this year, had you heard?" Draco blurted the moment his parents took their seats in the dining room for breakfast. He asked this question ostensibly of his mother, as he would never presume to be privy to any information of which his father was not already well aware, but a darting glance in Lucius's direction betrayed his true objective.

"I'd heard it would be in England this year, yes," Narcissa replied, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "Remind me which teams are playing again?" She asked this solely for Draco's benefit; she cared so little for the sport that only her immense fondness towards her son could inspire her to even feign interest in the topic.

"Ireland and Bulgaria," he answered at once, his eyes flickering again towards his father. Lucius ignored both the look and the conversation, instead lifting the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that had been laid neatly by his plate and perusing the headlines. "Krum might be one of the greatest Seekers of all time," Draco went on pointedly, "though Ireland's Chasers have been pulled off some really astounding plays this season." He waited, and when neither spoke he pressed on doggedly. "They'll all be flying Firebolts—"

This comment did at last draw his father's attention, as well as his ire: Lucius pulled his gaze from the paper for only a split second to give his son a look of warning. Draco, however, had not been planning to use this conversation to plead his case for a new broom yet again, so he went on quickly, "— and it's meant to be a close match."

"They will not all be flying Firebolts; Nimbus is one of the sponsors," Lucius drawled smoothly, returning his attention to the _Prophet_. "Ireland will be, but Bulgaria is not."

"Right," Draco agreed impatiently. "Should still be a thrilling game to see in person though." The silence stretched on as Lucius refused to acknowledge his son's intentions.

"I'm sure your father will try to get you tickets, darling," Narcissa spoke up at last. "But you mustn't be disappointed if he cannot. I'm sure the best seats are already sold." Her tone was carefully guileless, but she could not fully hide the sharpness of the glance she cast in her husband's direction meant to gauge his reaction. "And very expensive, besides."

Lucius tore his eyes once more from the words before him, this time to glare at his wife. She took an innocent bite of her scone and her attention stayed fixed across the table on Draco. "What are you doing today?" she went on.

Draco watched his parents carefully. He knew them well enough to be certain there was something _else_ going on here; however, after a moment, he shrugged and reached for a pastry. "I'll probably go to Greg's for a bit." Goyle's parents paid the least attention to the boys and were the easiest to deceive if they wanted to sneak off to London later.

Narcissa nodded placidly. "Lovely. And you'll be at the Ministry?" she guessed, turning her to her husband at last. He was still staring at her through narrowed and suspicious eyes.

"I suppose I will be," he agreed slowly. She offered a bright, angelic smile to them both. "Lovely," she repeated. "I shall expect you both for supper, then?"

Draco nodded, but Lucius answered with a short 'no.' She did not seem put off by his refusal as she rose to her feet. "It's wonderful to have you home, darling," she told her son with genuine warmth, touching his cheek affectionately before sweeping off to her private parlour to answer post.

That evening, Narcissa sat alone in bed, ostensibly reading, but her eyes had not moved across the page in some time. It was past ten in the evening when an elf appeared in the room, per her instruction, to announce that its master had just arrived back at the Manor. With a brief nod she dismissed the creature and slipped out from between the sheets, smoothing them to show no sign she'd been there, before moving to sit at her vanity.

She had selected a slip and silk robe that were not newly purchased— he would notice and that would undoubtedly be an overplay of her hand— but not among the most usual rotation of what she wore to sleep, and the slight novelty would serve to pique her husband's interest. For the sake of convenience and comfort, Narcissa generally slept with her long hair in a plait but knowing how he liked it loose, she arranged it carefully around her shoulders as she studied her reflection for any perceivable flaws. Naturally there were none despite her advancing years (an intensive regimen of anti-aging potions and creams alongside her noble ancestry saw to this) and she continued to glide the boar bristle brush through her locks until they shone in the low light.

Just as she was beginning to wonder if perhaps Lucius had decided to finish some work in his study before retiring, the door opened. He'd evidently expected to find her in their bed, as his eyes flicked from her unmussed pillows to the vanity where she was posed with a quirked brow. He wore a travelling cloak over his business robes and black leather gloves, and discarded the first of these carelessly over a chair as he strode over to her.

"Good evening, Lucius," Narcissa began archly, offering him a light smile that he did not return as he studied her. He did not immediately reply; his hands, still gloved, began to gather the freed strands around her face and shoulders to the nape of her neck.

"Would you like to share with me your reasoning behind the charade this morning and the—admittedly delightful—tableau you've arranged for me here?" he asked silkily as he wound her hair around his hand and tugged gently, forcing her chin to tilt upwards as he watched her carefully in the mirror.

She tried to disguise any trace of her annoyance at being so easily found out. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean?" she asked politely. He reached around with his free hand, the tip of his middle finger running down from beneath her chin along her throat. The leather felt cool and slick against her skin.

"Oh, I'm sure you do," he purred, leaning over to place his lips near her ear. She could not fully suppress a shiver of anticipation, and his cold, grey eyes revealed a flash of heat though his sharp and aristocratic features remained still.

"Very well," she admitted, surrendering her inculpable act at last and leaning back against him. "Renata Baddock has gotten in her head the notion of hosting a _fundraiser._ For the wing at St. Mungo's that Fudge has been trying to find gold for. The wing that he's been trying to get _you_ to fund," she added, in case there was any doubt. "I couldn't bear the thought of participating in her charity luncheons or sitting through some mediocre auction of ersatz artworks and then having her gloat over how many galleons she'd raised over so many months. I supposed if you would just give the man what he wanted, he'd be so grateful that he'd offer you anything you wished as a token of his appreciation."

Lucius had released the hank of hair around his fist and was now sifting his fingers through her golden tresses instead. "Anything Draco wished, you mean?"

"Well, you like Quidditch too." And it would not be the first time he'd used his connections at the Ministry to secure tickets to high profile events.

"Renata was much more fun before she married, don't you think?" he drawled lazily, all his coldness gone now that she'd admitted her true motives. Not that he'd ever truly been in the dark regarding them— they'd been married too long for secrets, the true pleasure now came in forcing the other to confess their schemes. Narcissa scoffed.

"I hardly recall, if you must know. But back to the topic at hand—"

"Yes, of course. On that matter I have both good news and bad news for you."

Her guard was raised at once, and she watched him skeptically in their reflection as his hands dropped to her shoulders. "Oh?"

"The good news is I've given Fudge the gold. You won't have to attend any more dull luncheons aside from the many that already populate your calendar."

She nodded— she should feel victorious, but the announcement did little to ease her mind with the lingering threat he'd added beforehand. "And the bad news?"

"Ah, well." He dragged his fingers over the nape of her neck. "He was so grateful that he insisted on inviting me to be his guest at the World Cup, seats in the Top Box."

She nodded stiffly again— she'd intended as much, she thought it would be a marvelous experience for her husband and son to share— but she was still waiting for the other knut to drop.

"Seats for me _and my family._ Draco and I will be going… and you'll be coming with us." A wicked grin stretched across his face at her horrified expression.

"Surely you jest?" she demanded, spinning around and rising to her feet.

"No."

"Take… take Nott's boy! Or one of Draco's other friends, there's no need for me to—"

"I will not be tasked with minding some schoolmate of Draco's for the weekend," he snapped. "And besides, it would be insulting to the Minister to give away a ticket he specifically allocated to the enigmatic Mrs. Malfoy."

Enigmatic was a bit of a stretch; Narcissa was hardly a recluse. However Cornelius Fudge did not quite have the blood status to reach the highest echelons of pureblood society, and as such had never received an invitation to any of her soirees or galas; in fact, she'd never met the man.

"I will not sleep in a tent," she informed him icily. "I read that that's what they're expecting all the attendees to do— stay on a Muggle campground, dress as them, spend a weekend without magic… It's barbaric."

"You will," he smirked in malicious pleasure. "But don't worry, darling wife; it will be a very nice tent."

_Thursday, 18 August 1994_

He hadn't lied— the tent _was_ nice. It was an extravagant confection of emerald and cream striped silk with a tower at each cardinal point and domed central hall. He had even gone so far as to bring two of her beloved peacocks along as well, and tethered them neatly out front of the entrance. Still, she refused to be charmed.

"Unfathomable that the Ministry expects us to sleep in the dirt and grub about without magic," she sniffed disdainfully as Draco dashed eagerly inside to explore. Her eyes cast around haughtily, as though daring anyone to spy her in the Muggle attire she'd agreed to don only after her tailor had sent a Mudblood shop girl into Muggle Paris to acquire what she assured her was the very best non-magical attire available.

The getup consisted of a fitted jacket and matching skirt of cream tweed, with shining gold buttons adorned with two interlocking C's. Narcissa had inquired as to whether she could not have found a version with her own monogram upon them, but was assured that the letters indicated the name of the designer, not the wearer. "Absurd," Narcissa had scoffed. The skirt too had evoked something of an argument— Narcissa was adamant that she would not be seen outside the boudoir with bare legs as she was neither a schoolgirl nor a harlot, and eventually she had persuaded her tailor to cast a lengthening charm upon the garment, extending it from just above her knees to instead brush the ground. A fascinator atop her blonde coiffure had been designed by a newly famous and wildly popular Irish milliner called Philip Treacy and was her favourite part of the ensemble, though she'd never openly admit to finding any portion of it acceptable.

Lucius held back a heavy silk flap and ushered her inside. She shot him an imperious look and grudgingly followed her son to the interior of the tent.

Despite the tent's already prodigious external appearance, an Undetectable Extension Charm had been cast to further enlarge the space within. A magnificent cherry table surrounded by a dozen Biedermeier chairs stretched before them, and a short distance beyond an elegant clustering of lounges, couches, and settees formed a semicircle around a vast marble hearth that she suspected he'd linked to the floo network. A massive, gilt-framed mirror hung atop it, reflecting the cavernous space and entryway. In the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a glittering chandelier levitated to illuminate the scene.

"We're meant to eat in the parlour?" Narcissa inquired skeptically, weaving her way slowly towards the fireplace. "How… quaint." She stopped before the enormous mirror, her eyes narrowed distrustfully at her reflection, which was slightly distorted and spotted in the mercury glass. It was not a mundane object, but she could not immediately discern what enchantments had been placed upon it.

"No, Draco," Lucius spoke sharply and Narcissa turned to see their son freeze on the third step of the northern turret. "You'll be sleeping over there," he gestured to the opposite spiraling staircase. "That one is ours."

His parents' rooms were the only forbidden to him in the Manor, and he'd been in them only a handful of times in his memory, so he did not seek to go any further up the stairs; it made sense that the same rules would apply here as well as at home.

Draco nodded and began to move in the direction his father pointed, but paused before the fireplace. "I told Vincent and Greg that they could come for supper tonight. They've been here days already."

Lucius raised his eyebrows. "And did you think to ask you mother first? I daresay her social diary takes priority over yours."

Draco's eyes flicked over to his mother, who was examining the upholstery on a fauteuil through critical eyes. "Mum, can I—"

"Of course, darling. I wouldn't think to try to entertain under these circumstances," she sighed. "Not when we haven't even _walls_..." she drifted off, sounding mournful. Then, more brightly and with an indulgent smile, "Why don't you ask Pansy and Theodore if they'd like to join as well?"

Draco explained that the former would not be arriving until later that night, and the latter would not be coming for the match at all. "Pansy is coming with the Bulstrodes," Draco went on, "and their Portkey isn't scheduled until half eight. Theo's father wasn't interested in seeing the game, and I don't think Theo cares enough for Quidditch to come with anyone else." He thought for a moment. "Blaise may be here though, I could ask him."

Narcissa's lips tightened slightly at this suggestion— she had a somewhat contentious history with Blaise's mother— and Lucius hastily interjected.

"Let's just have Gregory and Vincent. Why don't you go see your room now?"

Draco nodded again and hurried off. Lucius turned his attention back to his wife.

"Don't you want to see where you'll be spending the night?" he purred, placing a hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the tower he'd forbidden their son from examining before.

"Very well," she agreed with a small sniff, "but I doubt I'll be able to sleep at all, exposed to the elements and surround by crowds as we are."

Lucius did not seem perturbed by her haughtiness as they mounted the stairs. "Good," he drawled, "I wasn't planning on having you do much sleeping."

Narcissa shot him a warning look over her shoulder, but as she turned and resumed her ascent a small smirk twisted the corner of her mouth.

Like the ground floor, the bedchamber had been decorated largely to match the interior of the Manor in her preferred aesthetic. A massive four poster bed swathed in rich velvet drapes stood as the focal point of the rounded room, and it faced a long, wide credenza that topped with a mirror much like the one below. There were two dragon leather chairs before a small hearth, and nearby a cabinet that, upon closer inspection, was found to be stocked with a variety of liqueurs and digestifs. The door to an adjoining bath stood opposite the fireplace, and a stately wardrobe was already filled with Narcissa's attire brought from home.

"Thank Merlin," she sighed, running her fingertips longingly over the fabrics. "I'm going to change into robes. I don't plan to go out again for the day to be spotted by any filth that cannot bear to see a properly-dressed witch."

Lucius came to stand behind her and eased the tweed jacket from her shoulders. "I won't be able to join you for several hours, there are some people I should go see first."

"Well it's alright for _you_ ," she sighed, leaning back against his chest and allowing his deft fingers to untuck and begin to unbutton her silk blouse. "Muggle men don't dress as dreadfully as the women do." In truth she was simply more used to seeing him dressed as a Muggle. His meetings often involved passing through non-magical parts of London and Muggle attire was expected at such gatherings. He owned a fair few flawlessly tailored suits for such occasions, such as the one he wore today. At first she'd found it strange, but after some consideration had decided he looked rather handsome in them and did not mind them terribly.

He'd finished unfastening her blouse and tossed it on the bed beside the jacket. His fingertips ghosted over the sheer slip she wore beneath, and he dipped his head to brush his lips to her neck. "The skirt is too long."

"Hm?" she asked, pulled from her reverie.

"The skirt is too long; Muggles wear them much shorter."

"Of course you'd have noticed something like that," she replied acidly, moving out of his encircling arms to remove the offending garment herself. However zippers were not something with which she was overly familiar, and he smirked and crossed his arms as he watched her struggle. "Tell me, do you secretly admire Muggle women?"

He was in too good a mood to antagonise, and he let the remark pass without bothering to muster any offence. "No," he replied idly, and she permitted him to step close once more to unzip the skirt for her. "It's just that I wished to see more of your legs."

"Well," she conceded at last as the skirt pooled at her feet and she pushed it aside with a delicate quirk of her ankle. " _You_ may, but I don't think think they're something that all of Wizardom need gawk at."

To this he did not reply, instead running one palm down an aforementioned limb and catching the hem of her slip in his grasp. "No," she chided at once, "that's staying on under my robes."

Undeterred, his hand slipped between her thighs and he murmured, "I can work around that."

"Lucius!" she scolded laughingly, but turned nonetheless to press her lips to his. She was about to point out that it was in the middle of the day, and they couldn't ( _or at least shouldn't,_ she amended mentally as his teeth grazed her clavicle), but before she could make the proper (if unconvincing) protestations, something caught her eye. "We— Draco?"

Lucius turned toward the doorway with a low sound of irritation, but it was empty. Narcissa moved instead towards the mirror with confusion. It appeared that this mirror was connected to the one below, and it was as though they were peering through a window into the parlour. Draco had apparently come down from his room and was now sitting on a couch and poring over some Quidditch publication or another, no doubt reviewing previous matches of the season in preparation for the grand finale tomorrow.

"Ah, yes." Lucius drew his wand as he strode over to the glass. "Just a security measure, so we might be alerted should anyone attempt to enter the tent. It detects movement." He tapped it once and it became a normal mirror at once, showing only the two of them in its reflection. "Where were we?"

"I think," Narcissa replied, turning to straighten his necktie and place a peck on his cheek. "That you had people to go see before supper?"

"Yes," he agreed regretfully, briefly cupping her jaw before turning to descend the staircase. "I'll be back before nightfall."

Narcissa smiled as she watched him go, not bothering to hide it since he was turned away and could not see. After a moment she returned to the mirror and tapped it with her wand to see him depart from the tent, and then slipped on robes before drifting down the tower herself to have tea with her son and look forward to the evening ahead.

* * *

Lucius rose slowly, luxuriantly from bed and summoned a velvet house robe and slippers. Narcissa stretched, cat-like, and rolled slowly over onto her side to watch him, raking her long blonde hair from her face in a contented sort of manner as he poured himself a drink and settled before the fireplace. He picked up a pile of post an elf had collected and delivered from the Manor, idly swirling his scotch as he read.

"I don't suppose I could stay here while you and Draco go to the match tomorrow?" Narcissa proposed, propping her head against her hand. "Even a dreadful scrap of fabric for shelter is better than being packed into a miserable stand with a hundred thousand other witches and wizards."

Lucius chuckled and shook his head without looking up. "It's the Top Box, I'm sure there will plenty of room for you to avoid rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi."

Narcissa sighed and rose to her feet. This time Lucius did look up, and watched with interest as she located a night dress and slipped it over her head before turning his attention back to the parchment in his hand. "Anything going on in the world other than Qudditch?" she asked mildly as she began to brush and plait her hair, noticing in the reflection over her shoulder that Lucius was scowling at whatever he was reading.

"That blathering fool—" he did not have to explain that he meant Albus Dumbledore, she could deduce as much from his tone, "—has decided to bring Alastor Moody on as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor." He crumbled the note in his fist and flung it into the fire. "Gods, I knew we should have sent Draco to Durmstrang."

"We're not going over _that_ again," Narcissa sniffed, crossing the room to pour herself a glass of wine and take the other armchair. "As long as Draco avoids trouble when he's around—"

"You think Moody will be unbiased towards any son of mine?" he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Draco's marks are disappointing enough without an ex-Auror—"

"Draco's marks are perfectly fine!" Narcissa interjected defensively. "He gets higher scores in potions than any other student in Slytherin."

"He's eighth in his year overall. Behind, in addition to half a dozen others, a _Mudblood Gryffindor_ , for Merlin's sake. At this rate he won't even make prefect."

"The Head of House recommends the prefects, of course he'll be chosen," she soothed. "Besides, the only other realistic candidate would be Theodore Nott, and I'd hardly say Dumbledore prefers Edward Nott to you, if he's taking such matters into consideration."

Lucius did not reply. His eyes flickered to the enchanted mirror, and for a split second a faint line of confusion appeared between his brows before he quickly resumed reading with an innocent air. Suspicious, as she was any time her husband attempted to look innocent, Narcissa turned quickly around just in time to see Draco slip out of the tent. She sprang to her feet.

"Go fetch him at once!" she demanded, looking around rather frantically for a robe that she could wear to chase after him herself.

"Let him go, Narcissa," Lucius argued patiently, remaining seated. "He spends most of the year away from us and manages perfectly well. It's half past ten, he's probably just gone to find Pansy."

He offered this with half a sneer. Lucius made no secret of the fact he found Pansy Parkinson an underwhelming companion for his son, having mentioned before how very like her mother the girl was; Narcissa, on the other hand, adored Pansy for precisely the same reason. From their school days Narcissa and Adrienne Parkinson (née MacDougal) had been the closest of friends, and their relationship had only grown when Draco and Pansy were young. However, when the two were around six, Ari had become pregnant once more, this time with twin boys. Four years after that, Ari had given birth to another son.

Narcissa had been truly happy for her friend. However, with so many small children now in the Parkinson household, their lives had no longer aligned as easily as they once had, and their visits became more infrequent. Moreover Narcissa, who had very little cause to envy anyone for anything, had found it somewhat painful to see her friend's home so full and busy. She had always wanted more children, but a series of miscarriages prior to Draco's birth had been followed by _de facto_ infertility afterwards. Though she had never explicitly cited this reasoning for her distance from Ari, Lucius seemed to deduce as much on his own and could generally be relied upon to hold back openly acerbic comments on the subject of the Parkinsons, despite his dislike of mother and daughter (and overall lack of regard for the patriarch as well).

"Well..." Narcissa conceded, "if he isn't back by midnight I'd like you to go find him."

Lucius did not agree to this, but Narcissa slid back into bed and picked up a novel from the bedside table. Every few minutes her eyes would flick from the page to the mirror, but she did not have to wait for more than a half hour before the door flap opened once more.

True to Lucius's prediction, it appeared he had gone to find Pansy Parkinson. But the pair was joined by Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent and Gregory, Blaise Zabini, and the oldest Greengrass whose name Narcissa could not recall.

"Are your parents here?" asked the Greengrass girl ( _Dinah? Dahlia?_ she was a plain, forgettable creature) rather fretfully, casting her eyes around the tent. Narcissa blinked in shock: she hadn't realised the mirror would carry sound as well.

"Yes; just keep your voices down and it won't be an issue, they've been asleep since an hour after supper," Draco replied with a roll of his eyes. "Tired, I suppose, at their age..." he continued, as if to suggest that he would never be so dull as to retire at such an early hour. Narcissa bristled, but Lucius muffled a snort at their son's ignorance as to why they'd actually bid him 'good night' at nine in the evening.

Draco called an elf and demanded drinks for the group, and Narcissa squinted and rose to her knees to confirm that only Butterbeer was being served.

"Alright, enough." Lucius walked over to the mirror and rapped it with his wand so it showed only their room reflected back at them. "Let's give the children some privacy, shall we?"

If Narcissa strained her ears she could just barely make out the sound of happy young voices from below, but now had no sense of what was being said. "He thinks we're old," she bemoaned. Lucius chuckled and shrugged off his robe before slipping back into bed beside her, cupping his body around hers and pulling her close.

"Perhaps he's right. I am forty, after all."

"Forty-one in just a few months," she taunted, nuzzling into his warmth an flicking her wand to extinguish the lights. "And _I_ don't turn forty until May."

"Shall we have a party this year?" he offered carelessly, his arm resting comfortably in the curve of her waist as he pressed a peck to her shoulder. "Or perhaps we can take a trip. We haven't gone on holiday in far too long."

"Oh, I don't know... perhaps if I survive this match tomorrow."

_Friday,_ _19 August 1994_

Narcissa took as long as she possibly could to get ready for the match in hopes that her husband and son would eventually lose patience and depart without her. It was not until Lucius entered their bedroom and offered to carry her bodily to the stands if she did not wish to transport herself there on her own two feet that she admitted to being ready. She did not think he would actually do it, but he delivered the threat with a calm, serious hardness in his tone that brooked no dispute and she had learned better than to flippantly test over the years.

As a result of her dallying they were very nearly the last group to enter the Top Box. It was even worse than she could have imagined: of the twenty chairs in two rows along the box, nearly half of them were taken up by Weasleys, accompanied by a black-haired boy she recognised at once as Harry Potter. Even without the scar and fame and Draco's constant complaining about him, she would have known his ancestry at once: the boy was an exact replica of the boy she remembered her cousin Sirius always hanging around with at Hogwarts, and to whose house he'd run off after Aunt Walburga had burnt his name off the family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

The bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl sitting with them could only be the Mudblood with whom they associated. Narcissa felt that calling her 'plain' would be an insult to plain girls everywhere, and she dragged her attention back to Lucius, who was currently introducing her to Cornelius Fudge. She could scarcely muster a nod in response to the Minister's fawning bow, and when they finally continued on to their seats, she furiously reached around Draco to catch her husband's sleeve.

"You promised there wouldn't be any scum in our box," Narcissa hissed under her breath. "When I agreed to come to this spectacle I never dreamt that we'd be seated by these..." Her expression conveyed her utter revulsion better than any adjective might.

"It's a tragedy, the level this administration is willing to lower itself to pander to public opinion," Lucius replied softly enough that only she and Draco could hear. "But while Potter remains so widely popular, I suppose the Weasleys will continue to cling to his rising star and insinuate themselves where they do not belong." However he could expound no further upon the subject, as the commentator had just dashed into the box and began to speak, his voice projecting throughtout the stadium. It took her a moment to recognise Ludo Bagman.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome!" he boomed energetically. "Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

She tried, as the crowd erupted into roars, to remove the disgust from her face and at least display a passive countenance for the duration of the match. Skilled as she was at falsifying a perfect society mask, it hardly seemed worthwhile to do so for _these_ people.

The Bulgarian mascots were presenting first. Narcissa surveyed the veela dancing for only a moment before her eyes flicked with cold recrimination in her husband's direction. Both Malfoys were fiercely jealous of the affections of their spouse, and while perhaps any reasonable wife might permit her husband to show a moment of interest in the enchanting dancers, Narcissa, reasonably or not, would accept no less than absolute devotion at all times. In the early days of their marriage, before he had fallen in love with her, Lucius had had something of a wandering eye, and she was still loath to be reminded of it.

In all fairness, Narcissa was not entirely without sin herself. But any indiscretion on either part was long past and he'd learned many years prior to curtail even the slightest trace of warmth towards any other beautiful woman while in her presence.

Lucius was not paying attention to the veela. He instead was already watching his wife when her gaze found him, waiting expectantly for this silent accusation and to be discovered without fault. The brow he quirked was teasing. _See?_ he seemed to say. _I know better than that._

Her lips turned upwards at the corner in a small conciliatory gesture. _Of course you do_. She looked instead at their son, seated between them. Draco had scooted forward in his chair, watching the scene with wide, fascinated eyes, and she swallowed her amusement as her gaze swept across the box. One of the Weasley boys and Harry Potter beside him looked ready to fling themselves onto the field below— good riddance— and beside them the bushy-haired Mudblood Granger sulked. Bagman was bouncing eagerly on his toes— she saw his robes stretched tightly across his stomach and noted he hadn't aged particularly well, though it had been over fifteen years since they'd last met— and the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, Dinumituski Oblansk, had a self-satifised grin on his face as his eyes flicked between the performance of his team's mascot and the foolish reactions of Cornelius Fudge, who had risen to get a better look.

It was hardly a surprise, of course, that when the Irish mascots soared out overhead, the red-headed miscreants in the row before them were soon grubbing on the ground for the leprechaun gold. Narcissa, on the other hand, merely flicked a Repelling Charm above her head so that none of the raining coins disturbed her hat.

And then the match began in earnest, and it was all that Narcissa could do to keep her eyes from glazing over in boredom within the first minute. It was far more amusing to steal glances at her husband and son, though she did not wish for either to note her observation lest they alter their reactions in any way. Draco had not moved from the edge of his seat since the veela had made their appearances, and his eyes darted eagerly after the players. Lucius, of course, would never wear excitement so visibly upon his face or bearing, but in moments of what she supposed must be high tension, he would lean forward fractionally and for a moment he and Draco looked so alike that she wanted to laugh and kiss them both.

Bagman's voice was terribly grating at this volume. Narcissa was not sure which ball or player she was meant to be watching. _Why_ in Merlin's name was there a house elf sitting by an empty seat in the Top Box? she wondered. Could she have gotten one of their house elves to come in her stead? No, Lucius almost certainly would have noticed.

The game was becoming more violent, though this hardly made it any more interesting to her. She had not been to a Quidditch match since her school days, and she had only gone to those in her earliest years when it felt obligatory to be seen there as not to be mistaken for a social recluse. By fifth year she could beg off attending with her housemates by claiming that she was revising, and she'd never once missed the experience of sitting on hard benches in all sorts of weather, packed in and jostled about.

Lucius had played Seeker during her first and for half of her second year before Abraxas insisted he quit the team. She strongly suspected that, without this egregious demand, he might have been able to salvage some semblance of a relationship with his father, but things had never improved after that. Even back then, Narcissa had not minded Quidditch so terribly when she watched Lucius play: in her inexpert opinion she always thought him very good at it, and moreover easily the most handsome player on the field.

One of the Bulgarian Beaters, a huge, bearded young man, paused directly before the Top Box to smash a Bludger at one of the Irish Chasers, and when it made contact he grinned wildly and laughed aloud and for a second she was vividly reminded of—

_No_.

The match dragged on and she tried harder now to keep up with the events of the game but it was a challenge when she scarcely recalled the rules. She could see by the scoreboard that the Bulgarians were losing badly, but was fairly certain that didn't matter so long as they caught the Snitch— and hadn't Draco mentioned something about the superior Seeker on their team? She wished he'd hurry up with finding the tiny winged ball. Or the Irish. It didn't particularly matter to her. Lucius had not declared a preference, she knew he would simply claim to have supported the winner all along, so Narcissa felt no need to do so either.

One moment of interest was when the veela stormed the field in outrage (she had never seen them transform before in person) and thankfully the match ended shortly thereafter. The task of waiting in the massive crowd to exit the stadium and return to their tents felt insurmountably daunting, and she shot her husband a pleading look that he missed at first because he was speaking with Oblansk. Draco was so excited he was practically babbling, asking her if she'd noted the nuance with with Krum's feint had persuaded Lynch to follow, how it all came down to hand positioning on the broom to make it truly believable.

Naturally she had noticed no such thing, but still smiled tiredly and placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Lucius turned back to them at last, and as soon as he caught sight of her expression he suggested, as she'd hoped, that Narcissa Apparate back to the tent and the two of them would meet her there in a little while. She was only too happy to agree.

Back in the tent, she quickly found a potion for her growing headache and somewhat frazzled nerves, and decided to lay down until her family arrived.

It was nearly two hours before Lucius and Draco returned to the tent, and they were not alone. Narcissa was glad for the brief respite she had been afforded, because she was now obligated to switched at once into the role of a gracious hostess. Her husband had brought with him a handful of familiar faces: the Carrow twins, Walden Macnair, Petrus Avery, and Sinclair Crabbe.

It was the last of these she greeted first, asking after his wife.

"Deirbhile's taken the boys home," he explained, and then with a sheepish grin, "I couldn't turn down the chance to celebrate though!"

She agreed with a smile, and noticed Draco yawn hugely.

"I think bed would be best for you, darling," she encouraged, half expecting him to insist upon bringing his own housemates over as he had done the night before, but mercifully he conceded this point and sent himself to his room, having no further desire to stay up with his father's associates.

Drinks were poured, too many, and the group of old friends settled in for a long night of revelry. Hours passed in companionable conversation before the sense of camaraderie became too lax, and strictures began to fall to the wayside.

Lucius smirked lazily, taking another long sip of firewhisky. "My god," he drawled, "but things have been boring lately, haven't they?"

"Boring?" screeched Amycus, laughing raucously over her Firewhiskey. "I'm not sure where you've been Malfoy, but that match was one for the ages! A win from Ireland but Krum still getting the Snitch, I can't think of another—"

"That's not what I meant," Lucius snapped, and some of the merriment in the immediate vicinity died down. Lucius stretched, and as he did so, his hand wound around Narcissa's waist, drawing her closer. It was unlike him to handle her so familiarly amongst company, and she shook her wine-induced sleepiness aside to focus on his words once more.

"Those Muggles, the ones that checked us in. A little cocky, don't you think?" he queried the group slyly, his thumb stroking his wife's lower back.

"Well," Macnair poured himself another drink as he spoke, "it was a bit mad for the Ministry to let Muggles run the campsite, I agree. They seemed to think it would draw less attention, but the way they've been Obliviating the bloke, I reckon they might've well has sent him on holiday for the week."

A slow, malicious grin stole across Lucius's lips. "What say you… we have bit of fun?"

Narcissa knew immediately, with these words, that he was drunk. Insurmountably so. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the murmurs around the room became suddenly hushed but eager, thrumming with dark energy.

"I'll be back in a moment, dear," Narcissa excused herself quietly and rose to her feet. Lucius nodded generously and finished his drink. Narcisssa twitched her wand to send a bottle of scotch soaring in his direction. She knew further inebriation was not the answer, but she needed to buy a few moments.

"Draco," she hissed, having ascended the stairs to her son's loft. "Draco, darling, wake up."

He turned over and blinked groggily at his mother standing at his bedside. "Mum? Whass—"

"Hush," she commanded, softly but sternly. "Dress quickly, take your wand, and head into the forest. Speak to no one. Understood?"

"Erm…" Draco rolled over, and fumbled for his wand. "Yeah," he mumbled, his fingers closing around it at last. "Yes," he repeated more confidently now, as his wand emitted a glow that illuminated his loft. "Give me a few?"

"Of course," Narcissa allowed, pecking his forehead. "No more than five minutes though."

When she descended, she knew even five minutes would be a struggle. Somehow Lucius was already in his black robes, and his mask (which she hadn't had to see in over a decade) was cast carelessly on a side table. The others were babbling eagerly amongst themselves in hushed tones, laugher punctuating their conversations as they too pulled on black garments. Spotting Narcissa, Lucius offered her a wide grin and stretched out his hand.

"Join the fun," he murmured, pulling her into his arms and moving his lips to her ear. He pressed another glass of wine into her hand; she wasn't sure from where he'd summoned it.

"Darling," she couldn't resist a small laugh at his antics as she took a sip. "Don't you think I should keep an eye on Draco?"

Lucius shrugged. "He's fourteen now, he can go off by himself for a bit. Besides it's not as though he's in any danger with this lot on the loose."

It was true, and there was something exciting about seeing him like this; seeing so many old friends and acquaintances gathered together like back in the old days. They had never been, collectively, totally free of suspicion, and long gone were the masquerades and feasts that used to be held so frequently and publicly.

Narcissa quietly slipped her hand around her husband's wrist and squeezed gently to indicate she would follow him. She trusted Draco to stay well out of sight and away from danger— she was not sure her husband could be relied on to do the same in such a state and the campsite was quite literally swarming with Ministry officials. He smiled down at her, a little lopsidedly, and summoned a black cloak for her to put on over her robes.

"And the final touch," he added, conjuring a shimmering sliver disk that it took Narcissa a moment to recognise as a mask.

When he held it up, it moulded magically to faintly follow the contours of her features while still appearing largely blank. Lucius tucked her long blonde hair affectionately under her hood, and chuckled softly. "You look just like your sister," he jested, unable to see her face blanch at the sense of foreboding that swept over her in response to the casual remark that he never, ever would have dared make in his right mind. They did not speak of such things, or such people, any longer, and had not done so for over a decade. He placed a careless peck on the cold, smooth forehead of the mask that she could not feel before donning his own and turning to lead the group out of the tent. Narcissa threaded after him, determined to remain close to his side.

The Irish celebrations had largely died down by now, and their group of seven attracted no attention as they quietly wove their way towards the cabin where they'd been given their lot assignments. Lucius had insisted that their lot be near the entrance in order to prevent the necessity of his wife trudging through rows of tents, so the trek to their quarry was a short one.

Narcissa had never in her life set foot in the home of a Muggle, and had no intention to do so now. She instead lingered outside while Lucius quietly unlocked the door and the rest of the party slipped inside; not especially quiet, as their drunken sniggers carried in the cool summer air.

Within a minute or two, the family of Muggles was hauled unceremoniously from the small shack, and a few Cruciatus Curses were shot in their direction, causing them to writhe and twist. Someone had had the foresight to Silence them so they suffered in silence. One of the veiled figures— Lucius, she realised as she recognised his elm wand— flicked his wrist and one of the children went somersaulting into the air, thirty, fifty feet overhead before tumbling downwards and slowing only when he came within inches of the grass. A grating peal of laughter— the Carrow twins— and the girl child was pitched upwards in a similar manner, cartwheeling dizzingly skyward and plummeting in a steep drop, stopping just before the fatal impact.

The rest of the group joined in, tossing the family with coarse shouts of mirth for several minutes before Lucius proposed slyly, "Why don't we go for a walk?"

Narcissa knew it was reckless, but as he took her hand and chuckled again, it did not seem so terrible... they were just levitating the family after all, there were no Unforgivables being used as they trooped towards the campsite— and look! Others were suddenly joinining in as well, shouting and laughing and pointing their wands upwards to spin one Muggle, flip another... Wizarding pride ran deep, especially after such a spectacular sporting event, and while some had feared the Death Eaters during their prime, many others revelled in their purpose of elevating the magical above the Muggle. It was disgraceful the way they had to hide... they way they had to dress like Muggles and camp like Muggles and kowtow to what simple Muggle minds could comprehend, and it was not only Death Eaters who knew this. The crowd that was slowly blooming around the core group reaffirmed this fact. The Ministry officials trying to fight their way through the horde was of no matter, the Ministry had always been weaker than the pureblooded wizards who had once followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but now espoused the same beliefs as their ancestors that had nothing to to with an individual. Magic was might, and this notion was little more than patriotism tonight.

In the distance, somewhere in the forest, a ghostly green light exploded above the tree tops. Her festive spirit was wiped away and searing panic darted through Narcissa's veins— had someone been killed? Draco was in those woods— but she felt a split second of relief when she recognised this was not the flash of a Killing Curse, but a different spell entirely. An emerald constellation was blooming over the leaves, taking shape to form...

And then cold dread and blank confusion swept her. It wasn't possible, there was no way she could be seeing... Beside her Lucius froze. Then her husband's fingers became an iron manacle around her forearm and she was dragged into the suffocation of side-along Disapparation with a resounding crack.


	2. Chapter 2

_Friday,_ _19 August 1994_

They reappeared in the middle of their tent with a lurch, and at once Lucius was tearing off Narcissa's mask and cloak, a string of obscenities sliding fluently from between his clenched teeth as he ripped his own off and threw them to the ground as well.

" _Incendio_ ," he hissed, igniting the garments and watching them spark with a slightly unfocussed gaze.

"You'll burn the whole place down," Narcissa snapped, drawing her own wand, pointing it at the smouldering pile and pronouncing: " _Evanesco_." At once the evidence of their illicit excursion and the flames vanished, leaving only a charred spot on the Savonniere rug. "We need to find Draco," she went on urgently. "He's alone in the woods, we have to—"

"Mother?" Draco's face, pale and cautious, emerged from the doorway into the tent. "I'm here. People started running out of the woods in a panic, I thought I'd come see—"

Narcissa crossed the space with swift strides to take him in her arms briefly, then held him by his shoulders to inspect him for any damage that might have been done. "We're going home," she announced tersely once she was satisfied that he was unharmed. "Right now. Lucius," she added, glancing over her shoulder at her husband. "Did you connect this fireplace to the floo network?"

The appearance of the Dark Mark had done wonders to sober him, but he was still somewhat glassy-eyed as he wove his way around the furniture to join them. "Yes, but taking a Ministry-regulated form of transportation off the campsite—"

"Would be perfectly reasonable, given the circumstances," Narcissa cut in tightly. "I'm sure the worst you'll face is a fine, and I think a few hundred galleons is well-worth getting us home safely at once."

"What's going on?" Draco demanded, gaze flicking from one parent to another. Narcissa hesitated before answering as honestly as she could.

"I'm not sure. Your father will find out more in the morning." She realised she was unsure whether Draco even knew what the Dark Mark was; certainly he did not know it had once been imprinted on his father's left arm. Lucius had never kept his support for the Dark Lord a secret from his son— he did not censor his opinions in his own home, and when he spoke of the days during the Dark Lord's rise to power, it was with a sense of nostalgia. He'd had such high hopes then, dashed on one October night by an infant in Godric's Hollow. He was fond of speculating what life might be like for them if things had gone differently: Dumbledore would not be at Hogwarts, the Ministry would not be run by pandering fools, and most importantly, the Statute of Secrecy would be nullified and they would not have to live in hiding from Muggles. However, the knowledge that the inner circle had worn the Mark in their skin was still unknown to any except those who bore it and their closest kin, as far as she was aware.

"Let's go," Lucius agreed, taking a cloisonné box down from the mantle above the fire and tossing a pinch of floo powder into the dying flames. "Draco, you first."

Once he had vanished into a swirl of emerald flames, Narcissa stepped forward and followed suit. As soon as she arrived in the familiar surrounding of her parlour she felt a moment of relief, which was trailed closely by a dart of panic. What if Lucius decided to stay behind, investigate for himself the caster of the Mark? But he appeared only seconds later.

"Go to bed, Draco," he commanded, perhaps more sternly than necessary. "And don't send owls to any of your friends before you do." At a glance from his wife he seemed to recognise the unwarranted authoritarian note in his tone and added carefully, "We'll discuss this in the morning."

When Draco had done as he was asked, Narcissa rounded on her husband. "Who cast the Mark?" she demanded at once. He did not answer; he merely waved his wand and extinguished the fire to prevent any unwelcome visitors from following their exit path off Dartmoor and turned to leave the room. Narcissa blinked in shock, stunned by this wordless dismissal, and hurried after him. "Don't you dare ignore me!" she hissed, keeping her voice low in case Draco was lingering in the corridors. "Did one of our group break away? Was it someone else?"

Lucius remained silent until they reached the sitting room that led into their bedchamber, and once Narcissa was certain that the door was closed firmly behind them she raised her voice. "Lucius, _who cast the Mark?_ "

"I don't _know_ , Narcissa," he groaned at last, kicking off his shoes with an impotent sort of violence. "Do you think I wouldn't tell you if I did?" He shook his head and shucked off his shirt as well, and then began on his belt. "It has to be some sort of sick joke, though I can't imagine who... Everyone who knew how to cast the Mark was with us. Well, Nott wasn't. Nor Severus. Karkaroff— _ouch!_ " As he was unfastening his trousers, Narcissa suddenly rushed across the room and seized his wrist, and her nails sank painfully into his flesh as she wrenched his arm towards her.

"What are you—" he began furiously, but she whipped out her wand and he fell silent at once. However she did not hex him; instead, she held its tip near where her nails dug in.

" _Lumos_ ," she breathed. "I... do you _see_ that? Tell me I'm imagining this," she half-demanded, half-pled.

"See what?" Lucius growled, trying to dislodge her grip and failing. "What are you going on about?"

But then he broke off and he grew still, at last focussing on where the intense beam of illumination fell. He squinted at the pale skin of his forearm, leaning in a bit closer and then drawing back. "I think... I don't think it's anything, Narcissa."

He did not sound convincing in the least, but pressed on. "It's always been a bit... it's never totally gone away, it's just because you've put a light on it..."

On the thirty-first of October, more than a decade prior, the vivid red tattoo branded into her husband's flesh— the one that had been there since before their marriage, and on occasion burned black— had abruptly vanished. Or had very nearly done: in direct sunlight, or pinpointed wandlight, there had always remained a faint, pinkish tracing of the skull and serpent upon his pale skin.

However tonight, for the first time in nearly thirteen years, Narcissa was certain she had caught a glimpse of the Mark from very nearly across the room when he'd moved to undress; a reddish blemish on her husband's otherwise flawless complexion, its distinctive shape winding its way towards his hand. And now, as she illuminated the disfiguration, she was certain that she was not mistaken. The lines were clearer than she'd seen in over a decade, more detail than her tired mind ought to be able to supply if she were only mentally fabricating the shape.

Still, the crescents left from her nails were the darkest mars upon him in this moment, and she haltingly withdrew, skating her fingers gently, almost apologetically over his palm as she did so. "Lucius," she breathed, softer now, cajoling, "surely you see—"

"I think," he cut in, suddenly impenetrable and vaguely menacing, "that it has been a very long and trying day." He pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed, though they both knew they would have to rise in just an hour or two. "We ought to get what rest we can."

_Saturday,_ _20 August 1994_

The paper that arrived in the morning was bleak, and for one of the few times in the history of their marriage Narcissa resented watching her husband peruse it at his leisure over breakfast. He did not bother sharing any content from the article titled "SCENES OF TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP," but did chuckle and read aloud a quote on the next page from the long-resigned International Director of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee, Royston Idlewind. "'A wand ban doesn't look so stupid now, does it?'" Lucius drawled in amusement, shaking his head. "You were in France for that Cup," he added with a nod towards Narcissa, "it was 1974. But he was adamant that all the attendees surrender their wands upon entering the stadium, and everyone snuck them in disguised as these ingenious noisemakers. Syria won by a margin of—"

"Lucius," she interrupted, "I wonder if the _Prophet_ mentions anything about the events of _this_ World Cup?"

"Ah... yes. Well, not much that we weren't there to witness ourselves. Although there is, of course, the specific sensationalism that only Rita Skeeter could possibly add to an article." Sensing her agitation, he passed the paper to his wife. Draco had been uncommonly quiet so far into the meal, and Lucius shifted his attention.

"It was the Dark Mark, wasn't it?" Draco asked carefully. "I've only ever seen a picture before, in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_."

"You need to be careful reading titles such as that, Draco," he lectured sternly, "because the Dark Arts haven't fallen, have they?"

"It's _your_ book!" he protested. "I found it in your library."

"Yes, well, when you've lived through the events as I have, it can be useful to obtain a chronicle such as that, but the bias of authors proudly announcing the cessation of Dark magic when the Dark Lord fell is utterly absurd. The definition of what is considered 'Dark' is constantly shifting. At Durmstrang, for instance, you'd learn such spellwork in your daily lessons. Personally I think it would have been a valuable addition to your coursework, but your mother preferred you stay under the limited tutelage of Albus Dumbledore."

"I wanted him closer to home," she replied archly, in a tone that belied how often this subject had been dragged up and bickered over, before reaching across the table to place a placating hand over her son's. "Hogwarts was always the best option for you," she added fondly.

Draco looked torn between annoyance and amusement at his mother's affections and offered her a crooked half-smile rather than reply.

"It _should_ have been," Lucius agreed with her acidly, "given the amount of money the Malfoy family has poured into the institution for nearly a millennium. Karkaroff may have his faults but at least the curriculum at Durmstrang remains intensive and his students are not woefully ignorant to a branch of magic that—"

" _Lucius,_ " Narcissa breathed, in warning this time. She would not abide by one of his lectures this morning and slid the paper back to him.

"Yes, alright," he conceded, sounding nettled. "I'll go into the Ministry this morning and see what they've discovered."

Narcissa watched him carefully as his eyes turned back to the _Prophet_. He seemed far calmer this morning, but he had risen and dressed before her, and brushed aside her attempts upon waking to reexamine his forearm.

"Who do you think it was?" prompted Draco. "The person who cast it?"

"Likely it was some hooligan who learned of the spell through second- or third-hand sources and thought it would be an amusing prank," Lucius drawled unconcernedly. "The timing was in very poor taste, however."

"Because it was embarrassing to our Ministry with so many foreign visitors around?" Draco guessed, and Lucius gave a noncommittal hum in reply. Narcissa knew that Lucius cared not a whit for the damage control efforts the Ministry would have to put forth; he felt the timing to be poor because seeing the Mark last night had caught him off-guard and deeply rattled him. However, gone was the shaken man from the night before, and her coolly disaffected husband had returned to flip through the _Daily Prophet_ over toast and infuriatingly ignore the speculative conversation on either side of him.

_Wednesday, 31 August 1994_

The afternoon before Draco returned to Hogwarts was filled with the usual procrastination: instead of packing, Draco was flung across a settee, flipping listlessly through one of his new spellbooks as Narcissa played Rachmaninoff at her piano.

"I wonder if the Triwizard Tournament will interfere with Quidditch," Draco mused with a frown, glancing up at her questioningly. "I mean... it seems the pitch would be the natural choice for staging the events, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, darling," she replied lightly. "Your father would have a better idea about all that. I daresay the grounds are large enough to set up a separate stadium though. Or perhaps they'll take place in the Great Hall. I haven't any idea what the scale will be— if it's similar to a duelling competition they might not need so much space."

"What do you think the Tasks will be?" he asked eagerly, not for the first time, and he sat up as he spoke. She stopped playing and smiled at him.

"There hasn't been a tournament in two hundred years, I haven't any more idea than you do."

"Many of the past tasks have involved creatures; an escaped cockatrice was the reason the tournament was cancelled for so long. Will that make them more or less likely to bring in dangerous beasts, do you think?"

Narcissa gave him another warm smile and began to shuffle through her sheet music. "I couldn't say," she replied gently, though she added, "but your father assured me that there have been numerous safety measures put into place to avoid any rampaging cockatrices or the like."

"With the level of incompetence in the Hogwarts administration I would still be concerned," Lucius's drawling voice came from the doorway. "However the Ministry has an active interest in the Triwizard Tournament as well, so there should be sufficient oversight to prevent any deaths. Of the spectators, at any rate."

He strode into the study and took a seat, one ankle resting on his knee as he watched Draco carefully. Draco had not explicitly agreed to his mother's repeated attempts to elicit a promise that he would not enter; he'd even managed to avoid responding directly to his father's warnings that he ought not to.

True to form, Draco hastily redirected the conversation to his previous question about Quidditch. Lucius did not reply for several long seconds, and when his spoke his tone was serious.

"Quidditch will not be your greatest concern this term, Draco. Nor the the Tournament, assuming you choose the wiser decision to make no attempts to volunteer as a school champion." He paused. "You'll have new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year," he went on carefully, his fingers drumming idly on the upholstered arm of the bergère he occupied. "His name is Alastor Moody, but he's known by many as 'Mad-Eye' Moody, due to the magical eye he had fitted after a neat bit of cursework by a man called Aldrich Wilkes destroyed his natural one. And this title is not a misnomer— he grows madder each year, his paranoia reaching a fever pitch each and every time he suspects Dark magic to be afoot. He's an ex-Auror, you see. It would... benefit you to avoid any undue attention in his lessons or outside of his classroom."

Draco frowned slightly, searching for the the unspoken meaning in his father's suggestion. "Dumbledore has put dangerously unqualified incompetents in teaching posts before," he pointed out slowly. Yet he'd never been warned to avoid the ire of Hagrid or even the werewolf that had taught during the previous school year.

"Yes," Lucius agreed brusquely, "but Moody can be assumed to hold an especial disfavour towards any students upon whose families suspicion was cast during the Dark Lord's rise to power. I daresay Theo and Vincent are receiving similar words of caution." Or ought to be, at any rate, though Edward Nott might be too senile and Sinclair Crabbe too thick to think to warn their own sons of the danger of an Auror at Hogwarts, particularly after the events at the World Cup.

* * *

Lucius was confident that Draco had absorbed the significance of his warning after their conversation. However it was a mere four days later that Draco's first letter arrived from Hogwarts with the morning post, and Narcissa gasped and dropped her fork with a noisy clatter as her hand flew to her mouth. Unable to articulate the source of her horror, she merely pushed the parchment in his direction, and Lucius was forced to live the secondhand mortification of his son's transfiguration into a ferret at the hands of none other than Moody himself, on the second day of term nonetheless.

"I told him to stay clear of Mad-Eye," Lucius snarled, his appetite quite vanishing as he re-read Draco's words. "I _told_ him he'd have it out for all of the old families!"

"You must do something about this," she returned through gritted teeth.

Lucius did not immediately reply. He had very little weight left at Hogwarts after the unfortunate incident with the diary two years prior, and he'd called in most of the favours he'd been owed last year to secure the execution of that beastly Hippogriff that has scratched ( _mauled_ , he reminded himself, the term they'd gone with was _mauled,_ it had been far more effective) Draco during his Care of Magical Creatures class. Not that it had mattered in the end— the bloody bird had gotten away, just as Dumbledore had skirted sacking and he himself had instead been invited to step down as a governor to the school.

"I can send an owl," he replied tersely at last, "but I doubt word of it from me will come as news to Dumbledore. Draco isn't injured, aside from his pride, so it is not a matter I can take to the Ministry either. It's disgraceful, the way Dumbledore is permitted to run the school to his every whim... I've been telling Fudge for years that the Ministry ought to step in and take a more active role in the curriculum and provide some semblance of oversight. I'll speak to him tomorrow about the issue, but I certainly cannot bring up _this_ —" he gestured to Draco's letter "—as an example of why the Ministry needs to intercede on the behalf of students; it would be humiliating to Draco, and he's reached an age that he needs to begin thinking of his own future amongst the current administration. Upset as he is now, the less time he spends dwelling on this embarrassing incident, the more quickly it will be forgotten by any others who witnessed it."

Narcissa was frowning down at her plate as he spoke. "Perhaps you could raise the question of Moody's competence? Draco wasn't injured this time, but who knows what could happen the next time an unstable, senile Auror loses his temper?"

"Next time Draco will heed my advice and be well out of the way, won't he?" Lucius returned irritably. He pushed the letter aside and picked up his fork, but he was no longer hungry. He set the utensil down with a clang and rose to his feet abruptly. "I'm going out for the day. I will not be back for supper. Don't bother waiting for me."

_Sunday, 30 October 1994_

"The students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will have arrived at Hogwarts by now," Narcissa pointed out somewhat wistfully, glancing up at the clock that showed it was half past nine. The Malfoys were settled in the parlour adjoining their bedroom for the evening, each with their own reading on hand, Lucius with a glass of scotch and Narcissa with wine. "I can't wait to hear about it from Draco. I'm so glad they've put an age limit in place, I'd hate to have to worry about him getting chosen," she continued. "I was talking to Fi Warrington— you remember Fiona, she's Penley Warrington's wife— and one of her boys just turned seventeen last week and is set on entering and she's frantic with worry. Of course it would be nice to have a Slytherin champion I suppose, but if boy takes after either of his parents I daresay she needn't worry about him being chosen..."

When Lucius did not reply, and indeed did not even look up from his book, she went on dreamily. "I would never have entered, of course, but what a delight it would have been to host visitors, or spend a term at another school. Well... at Beauxbatons, anyway, I doubt I would have much enjoyed a stay at Durmstrang. I've never met a really civilised man or woman who attended Durmstrang, you know. Simply dreadful conversationalists. But Beauxbatons—"

"Yes, we all know of your lingering affections for _that school_ ," Lucius snarled, and Narcissa pressed her lips together in irritation. He alluded, of course, to a young man for whom she'd held a fondness in her youth who'd attended Beauxbatons. Unfortunately, her youth included the first two years of their marriage. However she had not spoken with Michel Perrot in over a decade, even going so far as to decline an invitation she'd received seven years ago to attend the wedding of his younger sister Faustine, knowing how great Lucius's displeasure would be should they come face to face again. And still he had the audacity to make these snide remarks. Somewhat antagonistic now, she shifted the topic of conversation to one she knew he'd enjoy even less.

"It seems the papers have entirely forgotten about the events after the World Cup and devoted all their efforts to Triwizard Tournament speculation. I do find it strange that a competition between school children should draw such attention, particularly when one compares to what happened that evening."

Her remarks were met with silence, and she pressed on more brazenly still, daring to voice her concerns explicitly. It was an unusual tactic on her part, lacking in strategic subterfuge, but she could not bear it any longer. It had been weeks of avoidance, and her restraint was waning. "I think your Mark was clearer that night. Perhaps even more so now?" Her insinuation was not subtle: Lucius had very meticulously but with seemingly no effort at all refused to reveal his bare left arm to her in the past two months.

He hummed in a noncommittal manner, and examined the page of the tome he held with unwarranted attention.

"It may have just been our imaginations, of course, a refreshed memory from having just seen it cast in the sky..." she tried again, to no avail.

"Perhaps," he muttered, obstinately disinterested.

"But perhaps it was not," she protested quickly. "Isn't there anyone else you can ask?" insisted Narcissa, not entirely able to keep the taut thread of wiry anxiety from her voice. Lucius ignored this fact, and flipped another page.

"I will not risk sending Severus an owl, nor visiting the school while it's being so closely monitored for the tournament," he drawled, a faint line appearing between his brows at something he was reading. Narcissa craned her neck to see what had caused the slight reaction: the entire page was devoted to some obscure but surely irrelevant branch of necromancy, so she settled back into her chair. The unspoken addition to his reasons for reluctance was that he was not exactly welcome to stroll into Hogwarts in the same manner he had once been, before he'd been dismissed from his role of school governor for attempting to rid the institution of its still-reigning headmaster. With Alastor Moody stalking the corridors, his magical eye whirling about, it was unlikely that he could do so unnoticed either.

Once they would have had numerous people to turn to in such a situation, but so many of them were dead now, or imprisoned. She thought sadly of her cousins: wickedly handsome Evan and her dear, sweet Regulus, both taken too early in service to the Dark Lord. She did not permit her mind to wander any further than this; death was less painful to contemplate than the fates of others.

"Sometimes I feel that Severus is the only friend you have left," she mused sadly, still half-lost in reminiscence. Even as she spoke, she suddenly realised she did not know if Severus even felt the same, so reserved and withdrawn was the younger man. Was 'friend' the proper term?

Lucius snapped his eyes from the page at long last to shoot her a brief look of irritation. "Was there a point to that statement or just a comment on my general intolerability?"

"Come now, you know that wasn't what I meant," she assuaged him quickly, rising to her feet and placing an ingratiating hand on his wrist. His left wrist. He did not miss the way she toyed with the cuff of his sleeve and flicked the touch off irritably. She scowled. "You cannot pretend this isn't happening!" she hissed. "Ask Edward Nott, then. Sinclair Crabbe, or Petrus Avery. I know you don't trust them as you do Severus, but surely one of them could confirm whether or not they've noticed anything odd."

"Drop it, will you?" Lucius snarled, tossing the book aside and rising to his feet abruptly. She blinked, startled; it was unlike him to lose his temper with her, particularly not when she was being placating. She tended to spoil their son without end, but it was no secret that Lucius preferred to dote upon her and while their jibes and repartee might be ceaseless, it was rare that she could even intentionally provoke him to true anger. But she knew he was angry now, his grey eyes flashing dangerously as he turned to leave he room.

"Lucius, wait," she protested, trailing after him but rendered mute as frustration and hurt and bafflement strangled her words. She slowed and eventually stilled in the doorway of their rooms, helplessly watching his tense and swift progression down the corridor until he turned the corner and vanished from sight.

With a heavy, defeated sigh, Narcissa turned back and sank heavily onto a nearby couch. It had been a great many years since she had found her husband so intractable. Over the years she had grown accustomed not only to his lazy fondness for granting her whatever she wished, but also, and far more importantly, his willingness to reveal his thoughts to her. Normally at breakfast he would share his opinions on the morning news, and in some cases precisely what he planned to do about it; at suppertime he would tell her who'd he'd met with that day, the sort of matters they'd discussed, and she would let him know if any of her own meetings (over tea, in drawing rooms and parlours) could be of interest to him: knowledge of infidelities, financial woes, and other scandals were hard to come by in the halls of the Ministry. And in the evenings, they spoke of everything else.

There was also the not-insignificant matter regarding the fact that he had not shown any desire for physical intimacy since that dreadful evening in August. He could lie to everyone, even her, and do so persuasively, but she knew something was terribly wrong in the wake of its absence. Of course, she could not be certain how often couples married for nearly two decades ought to expect such... intimacies; however she did know that going from a minimum of thrice weekly to absolutely nothing at all could not possibly be the norm. Early in their marriage she had worried that her inexperience and unadventurous nature in such areas might cause his attentions to stray, but such fears could not be further from her mind at present. She did not suspect for even a moment that the long hours he stayed outside their home might be spent with other women.

Only once, since their first time together, had she deeply doubted his fidelity. After Draco's birth she'd been unwell for much longer than either of them had anticipated, and even after she'd regained her health, her focus had revolved entirely around their son. Lucius had been uncharacteristically patient and understanding until the evening of the Crouch's ball in celebration of the Winter Solstice, an event which she had elected not to attend at his side and instead remain at home with their son. In retrospect Narcissa understood that she had neglected her husband terribly, but when he'd return home flushed and disheveled and smelling of another woman's perfume, she had not been able to resist listening to the whispers afterwards; how he'd gone into the topiary maze with Francesca Zabini on his arm, how the other woman ( _beautiful woman, well-known to be a former lover of her husband's_ ) reappeared at the party an hour later and Lucius had not returned at all...

Narcissa had asked only once, and he assured her that he had done no wrong. Never once since that night had he given her cause to hold even the slightest inkling of doubt, and this remained true today.

However her confidence in his faithfulness did nothing to ease her deep worry over his wellbeing. She'd known before how very large the Manor was, and how very easy it was to be alone in the great house if one so chose, and Lucius was choosing to do so now. It seemed every conversation they had ended abruptly these days, if she was able to track her husband down at all: most days he rose before her and returned well after she'd retired for the evening. Some nights he did not return to sleep by her side at all. She wondered if tonight would be one of those nights as she walked slowly to their empty bed.

Narcissa vowed that she would be patient. Driving him to anger might only serve to push him further away, and he may come across the knowledge that evaded him at any time and his mind would be settled.

She would wait, she determined. But not for much longer.

_Sunday, 25 December 1994_

Narcissa wept the first Christmas she spent without her son in his lifetime; she could not help it, though she did her best to hide her tears from her husband. She had sent via post an entire feast of all his favourite treats ("Absurd," Lucius had scoffed. "Do you really think he'll eat any of this? Hogwarts has kitchens."), nearly every item carried by Quality Quidditch Suplies short of a new broomstick ("They cancelled Quidditch this year, what do you expect him to do with this?" Lucius demanded when he came across her wrapping parcels), and a wide selection of new robes from Madam Malkin's ("For Merlin's sake he's fourteen, let him pick out his own bloody clothes."), but still felt that it was a paltry substitute for actually being able to see him in person.

She could hardly blame him for wanting to stay for the Yule Ball— as a girl Narcissa would not have hesitated to do the same. But since Draco's birth, Christmas had always been a dazzling production in the Malfoy household, and though she had still decorated this year it had been half-heartedly done, knowing her son would be absent. And of course, Draco would have no way of knowing how distant Lucius had become these past four months, and would not guess how lonely she might be.

Lucius bought her jewellery for the holiday. She could not fault him on his selection, his taste was impeccable, but she was well aware that it was the sort of gift he purchased as an afterthought. Often he would surprise her with meaningful presents: a first edition of a book she loved, a private concert with a popular soprano she admired, a painting he'd secretly secured in auction that he knew she had long coveted. All she had really wished for this year was to see him smile at her, warm and careless and intimate, and the heavy, cool gems and metal in her hands felt like a poor proxy.

Since it was Christmas Day, even Lucius could not find an excuse to be out of the house. The Ministry offices were closed, and he could not visit the homes of any of his associates without intruding upon the intimate family affairs of others.

After breakfast he excused himself to his study, and she stubbornly invited herself to follow him and settled into an armchair before the fire with a new book she'd been sent from her mother. Lucius made no secret that he was not pleased to have her there, as indicated by cold, lingering glances and unstifled exhalations of irritation every few minutes.

"I hope someone thought to hire a photographer for the Yule Ball tonight," Narcissa ventured after close to an hour. "I should so love to see Draco and Pansy in their dress robes for the occasion, they must look darling together."

Lucius gave a final, long-suffering sigh, gathered his papers, and dropped them into a drawer as he rose to his feet. "I'm going to take a bath," he announced shortly, locking the drawer with a tap of his wand. "Please don't disturb me."

Narcissa waited nearly a full ten minutes to violate his directive before rising as well.

"Someone had better be dead," Lucius snapped as the door to the bath opened and his wife slipped, uninvited, inside. He was lying in the great claw-footed tub, his forearms pressed downwards on the cool porcelain lip and head thrown back. He did not open his eyes when he spoke. "What do you want?"

"To speak with you," Narcissa replied archly, undeterred by the coldness of his greeting. She entered the room and turned to face him as she leaned one hip against the marble countertop of the vanity, watching him closely and crossing her arms.

"We've countless rooms better suited to civil discourse, perhaps you might generously wait until we are occupying one of those?" he requested irritably, his grey eyes flicking open to fix her with a stern glare.

"No." She did not move. "You've been avoiding me, I want your full attention and I don't want you running off anywhere."

Lucius sneered. "I've been doing no such thing. The Ministry has been in upheaval since August. It would be foolish to distance myself from the goings on there at this time. Between the fact that Aurors have apprehended no culprit as the caster of the Dark Mark, the fiasco of Potter being selected as a fourth champion, and the general strain of hosting a Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts on the country, the entire organisation is operating at full capacity. I do not appreciate the constant questioning and scrutiny from my wife when I am working around the clock to stay apprised of events and making sure that our investments remain profitable and—"

"You haven't touched me since the World Cup," she pressed, determined that he would not evade her or the crux of the problem any longer. He hesitated.

"You're nearly forty years old, Narcissa. Perhaps I'm simply no longer interested." Apart from being entirely fallacious, it was a terribly risky statement to make when his wand was resting on the marble countertop by the sink, well out of reach. Narcissa blinked at him, then slowly approached the bath and knelt beside it, her face close to his.

"I believe you're just lashing out because you're frightened," Narcissa returned softly, dipping her fingertips into the warm water and watching the disturbance ripple outwards. "But I do hope you know that if you ever say something like that to me again, you need not fear the wrath of the Dark Lord nor the prosecution of the law, because there will be no Lucius Malfoy left for them to punish."

Lucius exhaled sharply and closed his eyes once more. "Perhaps that was what I was hoping for. At least it would be a quick, clean death."

"Oh," she replied in the same dangerously silky voice as she rose to her feet once more. "I can assure you it most certainly would not be." Because his eyes were shut, he misinterpreted the whisper of fabric as her turning to leave rather than the sound of her dropping her robe to the tiled floor, and so was visibly startled when she stepped into the bath with him a moment later. "Stop punishing me for things beyond either of our control," she whispered, sinking down into water and kneeling with a thigh on either side of his hips.

"Narcissa," he protested, but she cupped his face in her hands and refused to let him turn away. "I haven't been punishing you," he whispered miserably as she leaned in to shower small, nipping pecks along his jaw. "I've been preoccupied. I've been trying to understand what's happening so that I might be able to prepare before it is upon us." Her lips moved lower, to his throat, and still he stubbornly gripped the edge of the bath. "If I haven't shared with you, it's because I've learned nothing of use yet, I still have no idea who cast the Mark in the woods or what it meant." She kissed him at last, hard, and he returned it at once, tongue sliding into her mouth as his hands rooted in her hair. He drew back to whisper further explanations ( _"—I didn't want you to focus on my Mark and worry unnecessarily—"_ ), but she scarcely heard him. Her hands ventured lower and though she had not taken his insult earlier seriously, she was still gratified to wrap her fingers around the tangible proof of its fallacy.

When she sank onto him Narcissa puffed a contented, heady sigh at the piercing sensation that filled her, and his words became little more than a hum in her ears as she peppered kisses and small bites over every bit of his neck and shoulders that her mouth could reach. She rocked against him, moaning in soft appreciation at the pleasure that the movement elicited, and the feeling of his arms around her; it was dreadfully unfair when felt himself under external demands and that withheld himself due to stress, did he not consider what she wanted? After all, he was the one who had so attuned her body to demand the satiation of his, he was normally the one who could not go without, it was a cruel injustice when his desire abruptly waned like this, selfish of him—

"— and if I had realised the Dark Lord would return to power in our lifetime, I would never have—"

Narcissa froze as her ears perked to the words he was mumbling as his hands coursed over her spine and held her close. She ceased the gyrating movement of her hips and a groan of protestation bubbled on his lips, but she cut him off at once.

"Did you just say, 'in our lifetime?'" she demanded, reeling at the implication of his words. He frowned at her hazily, as though he too had only been half aware that he'd been speaking.

"Did I?"

"Lucius." She stood, removing herself from him and the warmly encompassing bath. The water made a squelch of protest that overruled any similar sound her husband might have uttered, an uneasy sloshing and splashing accompanying her sudden departure from the tub. "Do you mean to tell me, after years of swearing to the Ministry, and more importantly to _me,_ that the Dark Lord was dead, you simply meant... dead for our lifetime? That he might return someday?"

"I..." Lucius looked very regretful that he'd said anything at all. "I've heard of a Dark bit of magic that I'd suspected he might have employed... but I had no idea how he could conceivably use it return to power... it's all rather theoretical, you understand, evading death by preserving non-physical elements of the being. One doesn't come across examples of how it can actually be used to bring a person back after they're dead in a corporeal form; of course not, or everyone would be living forever—"

"But you knew," she managed, wrapping a towel around her body with shaking fingers. "You knew he'd done something, that he was not truly—"

"I didn't know anything with any degree of certainty!" he insisted, rising as well and summoning a robe. "None of us did—"

" _Bellatrix did!_ " And the words were a scream, fury pouring forth as she spoke the name of her sister that had for so long been taboo. "Bella searched for him and you told me she was mad! You told me there was nothing to seek and I believed you. When Bella and Rodolphus and Rabastan were sent to Azkaban, I believed it was for a lost cause, because you told me that's what it was. How many times have you denied him, Lucius? How many betrayals, large and small? The last time we spoke in any depth, Bella told me that the Dark Lord would slaughter you and your family, _your son_ , for abandoning him." She paused, chest rising and falling rapidly. And then she spoke with a chilling calm: "Show me your arm, Lucius."

He wanted to refuse her; she could see it in the tension of his shoulders and the grit of his teeth. But after a moment he acquiesced and her heart slid sickening to her stomach as the sight confirmed what she had suspected these long months, though her face showed nothing. The Mark was there, unmistakable, etched tellingly into his forearm. Once she had been so accustomed to the sight that even witnessing it burn black had caused her little concern. Now, while it was not as livid as it had been in the early days of their marriage, there was no misconstruing the shape of a snake protruding obscenely from the maw of a skull. She felt as though a thick serpent were unhinging her own jaw as she vomited its corpuscular form from her gut. The room spun and blurred.

"He's going to be here soon." Her lips were numb even as she made the pronouncement. "We have to prepare."

For several moments, neither of them spoke. Lucius stared at his arm rather than meet her eye, and his face was impassive and voice hard when he asked: "Are you going to leave me?" And then she knew at last the true reason, the true fear that had driven him to hide this from her for so long. He went on in a tone of forced blasé. "It would probably not be unwise. You've given him no cause to hunt you if I'm dead." The muscles in his jaw worked, but he otherwise remained motionless with his eyes cast downward.

She would never admit to the fact that this very thought had flashed through her mind in a fleeting moment of panic upon spying the Mark— _anything to keep Draco away from harm_ — but she dismissed it before it had even fully formed. Even if she'd truly wished to, Draco would never agree to abandon his father, and would never concede to live in hiding, in anonymity, especially not if Lucius were in danger.

And nor would she.

"No," Narcissa replied simply, moving past him into the bedroom to find a nightgown that had not been drenched by the water that now covered the floor of the bath. "The Dark Lord may be wrathful but he is not motivated by madness or spite. You were his second-in-command before he vanished. If he is slowly regaining strength, what sense would there be in murdering first those who once helped him to greatness? There is no reason he will not desire your support once more. If it was valuable to him twenty years ago, it will be even more so now. You have the ear and confidence of the Minister for Magic, Fudge owes you a great deal. Though you may have claimed to have done his bidding under the influence of the Imperius Curse, you never turned against the values that the Dark Lord espoused and that you once fought for."

Lucius stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched her inscrutably. He did not speak, so she continued.

"Gathering around him those who aided his rise last time would only be the most logical course of action." She wondered if she was trying to convince her husband or herself as she slid into bed. "You must... you must begin to strategise now. Review who in the Ministry could be a potentially ally, identify where the greatest resistance will lie. Make yourself indispensable and he won't— _he can't_ —do without you." She swallowed and laced her fingers in her lap. "After all, if he did not anticipate calling upon you for your support, why would he warn you of his approach? If he intended to simply do away with all of his Death Eaters and begin anew, why signal you this way? Why show you that he would soon call?"

At last Lucius crossed the room to sit heavily on the edge of the bed. "I don't know," he confessed, staring down at the ground and not moving to join her beneath the sheets.

"This isn't the first time we've faced uncertainty," she insisted, reaching out to touch his shoulder in reassurance. "And we came out largely unscathed before, did we not?"

"That was different," he replied, his tone like granite. "Narcissa... the worst thing the Ministry could have conceivably done was put me in Azkaban. Perhaps I would have faced the Kiss if they'd ever understood the scope of my crimes. But the salient point is that only _I_ would face punishment for my crimes within a system of law. The Dark Lord operates on his own terms."

He remained silent for a long stretch. "I would die before allowing him to harm either one of you," he added gravely at last. She began to protest but he held up a hand to silence her. "I would willingly choose that... but I do not know if I will be given that choice. One does not 'allow' the Dark Lord to do anything, he behaves as he desires and punishes mercilessly however he sees fit. The risk, should you stay... I cannot hope to mitigate the dangers that you or Draco will face should the Dark Lord choose to be unforgiving of my actions in the past."

Narcissa let her hand fall away from his arm and quietly lay back on her pillow, carefully turning the words over in her mind. The implications were too hideous to accept, and she firmly dispelled them from her thoughts.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she managed at last. "This could be what we've been hoping for, after all. The end of Dumbledore's power, the end of the glorification of Muggles. All of the things we believed would come to fruition before the Dark Lord fell could now reach actualisation. Perhaps we will see our family and friends who were entombed in Azkaban once more. Perhaps we should celebrate."

Lucius did not reply. When he laid down at last he remained turned away with his back towards her so it was impossible to tell if he slept, but when Narcissa woke in the morning he was gone and the bed was cold.


	3. Chapter 3

_Monday, 2 January 1995_

"Your son is in the paper, did you know?" Lucius queried mildly over breakfast, and Narcissa glanced up from her toast with a start.

"Draco?" she asked, extending an eager hand for the page.

"Have you another son?" he replied snidely as he passed it over.

" _Half-giant?_ " Narcissa squealed in alarm, missing the barb entirely and nearly upsetting her saucer of tea as her eyes flew over the text of the article. "That Hagrid creature is a half— did you know about this?" she demanded accusingly.

"I always assumed it was an Engorgement Charm gone wrong, but the better question is if Dumbledore knew about it— which he obviously did— and what he was thinking to hire someone like that." Lucius sounded angry but oddly satisfied, a hard glint in his eye as he watched her expression closely, and Narcissa read the column through a second time.

"My gods, but this is lurid even for Rita, isn't it?" She bit her lip, frowning at the page. "Er... do flobberworms _have_ teeth?"

"Manticores certainly do," snapped Lucius, snatching the _Prophet_ back. "And to breed them with firecrabs... the logistics of the thing aside, what was he possibly hoping to produce from that unholy union?"

She did not address this rhetorical question, instead wondering slowly aloud: "Lucius... did you tell Draco give a quote for this article?" He was agitated, as though her reaction was not precisely what he'd hoped. "Rita can be a bit unpredictable, I don't know that having him give her quotes is the wisest thing to do. She'll feel entitled to start asking more of him, and surely you can't have forgotten that horrid piece she wrote about you and I after half of our family—"

"Half of _your_ family," he muttered under his breath.

"—half of _our family_ was arrested after the Dark Lord fell," she went on, raising her voice slightly to drown his out.

"Yes, well, that's long in the past," he said briskly. "She doesn't even write for the society pages any longer. I ran into her at the Ministry a few weeks before Christmas and she told me she was working on something about the professors at Hogwarts, wanting to keep her subjects focussed on the school this year given the popularity of her other articles. I told her that there were very few left there of respectable quality, and that she ought to get in touch with Draco for additional details, as I have not been a student for many, many years."

Narcissa waited, and when it seemed no more was forthcoming she prompted, "And then you told Draco...?"

"I wrote to Draco saying that he should not be quoted openly deriding Moody or Dumbledore in the papers but that his past Defence professors were fair game and to be as frank as he wished about that idiot gamekeeper."

Narcissa shook her head. "Well he certainly has enough to say on that topic, and the Defence professors he's had..."

"It's odd, isn't it?" Lucius mused. "We never had one for more than a year either. Though their departures never seemed as suspect as they've been over the past few years. There was the one witch who left because she found out she was having twins, the professor from Ilvermorny who came to be closer to home for a year while his mother was ill... that young Russian warlock who was just waiting for his father to die to move back and inherit his estate, although if memory serves, he ended up getting sacked for sleeping with a student."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes. "That student was Lettie Avery, don't act as though you've forgotten," she hissed, and he went on listing quickly as though he had not heard her.

"That poor older woman who was driven out by the seventh years..."

"That was my first year," Narcissa agreed. "She was lovely. I never could understand why the older students were so dreadful to her."

"She had a grandson that was a Squib. Several other decently resectable ones too, though I think the main issue was that she seemed equally fond of them all. But of course all that harassment was led by..." he broke off, and Narcissa busied herself with her napkin as they both skirted around the uncouth topic of their imprisoned brother-in-law. "Anyway," Lucius concluded the conversation with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. "Never anything so dramatic as a werewolf, at any rate."

Narcissa sighed, feeling deflated. "I just don't love the idea of him speaking with Rita."

"If it makes you feel any better, she cannot afford to alienate Draco, nor you and I; if the secret of her Animagus form were ever to get out, Dumbledore would think to put up wards around the grounds to keep her out, even as a beetle. And her career would be over once the public learned how she came by her information."

This did placate Narcissa somewhat. "I just wish you'd thought to acquire such blackmail before she dragged our names through the mud all those years ago." She took a sip of tea and shook her head. It was not an argument worth revisiting, but the acid words Rita Skeeter had inscribed in the society pages over a decade ago would forever be etched in her mind: _"A source exclusively revealed to yours truly that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was once spotted exiting the Malfoy's posh London residence... One can't help but wonder if little Cissy Black sought to follow in big sister Bella's footsteps..."_ After its publication, Narcissa had told Lucius in no uncertain terms that Rita Skeeter's quill would never again insult the Malfoy name, and that he would silence her permanently by whatever means necessary.

She had been rather surprised when, a month later, he announced a rather unorthodox manner of doing so. By some means (on this front she was still unclear), he had secured both a vow from Rita that she would never again slander their family, and moreover the information that Rita was an unregistered Animagus. It had created an uneasy alliance, to Narcissa's mind at least; Lucius had never seemed as bothered by it as she had been.

With all this in mind, she hardly relished the idea of her son knowing the journalist, but it seemed Lucius had a grander scheme in mind— she could not possibly believe that humiliating the Care of Magical Creatures professor could be his end goal.

She supposed she would find out what it was sooner or later.

_Wednesday, 1 March 1995_

It was rare that Narcissa learned of any printed piece of information before her husband, but she was confident that _Witch Weekly_ was beneath his notice and he would not yet have seen it. For that matter she was fairly certain the love life of a teenager was beneath anyone's notice, but since the start of the new year she had been carefully tracking everything Rita Skeeter penned and published.

Draco was not quoted in this particular bit of rubbish, but Pansy was. She itched to send an owl to Ari about it, but she hadn't written to her friend in months. If she was honest with herself, it had been several years since they'd been close. Narcissa wondered, not for the first time, if she was at fault for their distance; if her deeply concealed envy had bled into their friendship and eroded it. Had she not lost enough loved ones in her life due to circumstances beyond her control? Had she let her own selfishness distance her from one of the few friends whose family had been largely untouched by the fall of the Dark Lord?

 _No,_ Narcissa assured herself, not for the first time. Ari had a four year old child and eight year old twin boys to worry about, not to mention whatever trouble Pansy was stirring up. Old school friendships could hardly be expected to take priority over such a busy home life.

"I think you should take a look at this," Narcissa announced coolly, striding into her husband's study after supper and placing the magazine on top of the parchment he was studying. Lucius scowled at the cover, where the head pastry chef from the Halcyon beamed and twirled icing from her wand over a cake.

"If you'd like to take up baking you needn't wait for my permission," he drawled disinterestedly, flicking the glossy publication aside.

" _This_ , Lucius," she snapped, ripping open the magazine to a brief column in the center that featured a photograph of Harry Potter and a predictably sensationalist title.

"Ah, Rita's latest. Yes, I suppose even the _Prophet_ couldn't justify publishing this... they do need to keep up at least a pretense of reporting news..." His eyes quickly moved over the short block of text, and upon finishing it he shook his head with a derisive scoff.

"Karkaroff must be going mad over this. His prize pupil publicly tied to a Mudblood girl... a _child_ in Draco's year," he added with faint revulsion that, for once, had nothing to do with blood status. "Krum played in the World Cup, which means he must have been at least seventeen over the summer; the Department of Magical Games and Sports will not allow an underage player compete..." He shook his head again as he calculated the years that must separate the couple. Still, he could muster no real concern for the matter and pushed _Witch Weekly_ back towards his wife. "Why did you want me to read this?"

Narcissa felt suddenly foolish. She did not wish to confess aloud that she had been combing obsessively through every article Rita had published since January; if she did so, she would also have to admit that she had not been totally comforted by his reassurances that Rita could not harm their son with her quill. "Do you really think there are Love Potions being brewed at Hogwarts?" she asked instead.

"No," Lucius replied shortly. "Draco has spoken with Krum. It's been obvious since the Durmstrang students arrived that he is uncommonly pro-Muggle in his beliefs. I'm sure Krum does not loudly advocate these leanings amongst his peers under Karkaroff's tutelage, but it seemed he was eager upon arriving at Hogwarts to establish the fact that his views align more closely to Dumbledore's than his own headmaster's. Seemed to think he'd find an empathetic ear at Hogwarts... if only he hadn't been seated at the Slytherin table," Lucius finished with a mocking tut of regret.

"But it seems that Pansy believes—"

"That girl," he cut in sharply, but carefully softened his tone in deference to Narcissa's affection for her. "Pansy does not have any evidence of a Love Potion. It's clear she dislikes the Mudblood— and who could blame her?— but the accusation is nothing but petty jealousy."

"Very well," she retorted coldly, picking up the magazine in stiff fingers. "I did not intend to waste your time." With her chin lofted and shoulders squared to mask her wounded pride, she turned to leave.

"Narcissa... wait."

The tone of his voice stilled her. Not because it was commanding— in fact, quite the opposite. More than anything he sounded exhausted, as though the notion of having her depart from the room in a fit of pique was more than he could hope to bear. Still, she took care to keep her expression neutral as she turned back to him, waiting for his next words.

He reached out and took _Witch Weekly_ from her grasp and dropped it into a brass waste bin beneath the desk, but did not release her hand. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the sensitive, translucent skin of the inside of her wrist— a thrill darted through her. Though he was no longer hiding from her, he had not touched her since the disastrous afternoon she'd confronted him in the bath. Christmas had been over two months ago now. The kiss felt like a dart of FiendFyre through her veins, and her breath caught. Was he...?

But he sighed heavily and instead pressed his forehead to the soft curve of her palm and rested it there for several long moments with his eyes closed. "What do you want me to do? Inform Draco that he must stop speaking with Rita and tell his friends to do the same?"

Narcissa hesitated. In truth, it was what she wanted. However she still felt certain he still had a larger plan in mind, one that kept him away from her side at all hours, and Rita Skeeter played some role in it. At her word he would abandon the plot, or at least find another method to achieve his ends. It was tempting.

She threaded her fingers in his hair and pushed his head back gently, turning his wan, tired face up towards hers, locking her gaze with his. "I trust you, Lucius. I trust you know what it is that you're doing." After a beat she went on. "All I ask is that you keep in mind who our enemies are. If you are confident Rita cannot betray us, fine. But these articles," she nodded towards the bin, "trite as they may be, paint a greater enemy in a sympathetic, if rather pitiable, light." She let her hand fall away, and flattered herself that he looked fleetingly disappointed.

"You're right," Lucius agreed grimly, his expression clouding. "Her fascination with Potter as some sort of child hero.. or victim... or both, has been frustrating. But I don't think it will interest her readers for much longer." His fingers drummed on the desk before him. "I don't want Draco to be the one to suggest a smear campaign against Potter, it would tip our hand. But I do want him to be the student she approaches for insight on his character when the time comes. The problem remains that Fudge is so damnably fond of Potter, and any accusations that Draco might make against Potter will merely be seen as a schoolyard rivalry. I've yet to identify a seemingly-neutral party that can sew a seed of doubt that Rita will find enticing enough pick up."

Narcissa pressed her lips together, thinking hard and watching as her husband pressed his fingers to his temple, undoubtedly attempting to alleviate the stabbing discomfort of a tension headache. Her eyes widened fractionally. "That scar of his... it pains him occasionally, does it not?"

"Erm..." it was clear Lucius had not anticipated this question. "So it seems. Why?"

"What does that mean, a scar still hurting thirteen years later?"

Lucius sneered. "A scar inflicted by the Dark Lord, paining the one that bears it? I cannot fathom." Sarcasm dripped from his words, and the fingers of his left hand reflexively curled. Narcissa waved this aside.

"It isn't the Mark, it's just a cut from a rebounding spell. So what would cause it?"

He exhaled sharply, tolerance growing short and interest in her riddles waning. "I don't know, what?"

"Well, _I_ don't know either," she replied significantly. "But a Healer might."

"So what, now you want to care for the boy? Send him to St. Mungo's?"

"Think, Lucius!" she exclaimed. It was truly an indicator of his weariness that he was not following her line of insinuation. "Do you truly believe that Fudge is the only one that owes you a favour for your donation last year? You think some Quidditch tickets are the only thing you're entitled to for the amount of gold you gave? Surely there's a Healer in Spell Damage that could claim these phantom pain are some hallucination or paranoia. Or—" she pressed on eagerly, brightening at her own brilliance, "circumvent St. Mungo's altogether, ask Marlowe to—"

"No," he held up a hand to cut her off. "Not Marlowe." The elderly Healer Marlowe, while not affiliated with St. Mungo's, still conducted private calls to the few wizards that could afford his astronomical fees. These fees bought excellent healthcare, a mediocre bedside manner, and absolute discretion. A decade and a half prior, more than one Death Eater had used the Healer's direct floo line in the small hours of the morning to tend to life-threatening injuries, and the Ministry suspected nothing.

"Marlowe would never speak to press and I would never ask it of him. It would violate the terms of how he operates." He paused, and she knew he was considering the rest of the suggestion. "However..."

Narcissa held her breath.

"I suspect there _are_ Healers in the Spell Damage ward who would hold the opinion that phantom pain in a scar could only bode ill. I'd have to ask... although perhaps it would be better to first..." he rose to his feet and began shuffling about for a blank sheet of parchment. "I need to send an owl," he announced brusquely and Narcissa knew that she was dismissed, and that her continued presence would only irk him.

The spot where he'd kissed her still seemed to tingle. She did not want to leave yet, but she made it all the way over to the doorway before faltering.

"What's the purpose of all this, Lucius?" she asked quietly. He did not reply, and as his quill scratched across the surface of the parchment, she could almost believe that he had not heard her.

_Tuesday, 23 May 1995_

Narcissa had, quite frankly, expected him to forget her birthday. She'd been bracing herself for the blow for weeks, so when she arrived at the breakfast table to find a small box upon her plate, she picked it up in curious fingers with genuine surprise.

"Is this from Draco?" she asked before pausing to consider the words. Lucius shot her an irritated glance.

"No."

"Oh," she flushed slightly and took her seat. "Right, of course not. Thank you, Lucius." Draco had sent her a letter, though, and an elf had placed it atop a pile of well-wishes that had arrived in the post for her. She set the small parcel aside— no doubt another bauble he'd selected with little care— and set to work instead on opening her son's note.

"You're not even going to see what it is, then?" His tone was cold, and Narcissa coloured more deeply at her lack of decorum.

"I... of course I am," she assured him. She wasn't sure what was wrong with her, only that she'd been so certain he would forget the date that she herself seemed to have forgotten how to behave upon discovering that he had not. Delicately, she removed the neat paper and opened the lid to the box, already preparing a carefully delighted expression upon her face.

"Oh Lucius, it's...!" Her careful smile slipped into a confused little frown. "It's... what is it?"

There were no jewels in the box. Instead it contained just a tarnished key, late 17th or early 18th century by her estimate. She had never seen it before.

"It's the key to the Malfoy estate in Léon," he announced drily. This did little to ease her confusion: though she knew of its existence, she had never before visited the property.

"I... already have an estate in France," she reminded him, nonplussed. His eyes closed and he pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration palpable.

" _For fuck's sake, Narcissa,_ " he hissed under his breath, then opened his eyes and dropped his hand back to the table. "I am not oblivious to the fact that I have been... absent, these past nine months. Your grace and patience has not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated. It is... going to end soon, one way or another."

Narcissa felt a shiver of foreboding at his words, but he went on before she could speak.

"The key is a promise. When Draco returns from school, we'll go on holiday in Léon, or Blois, if you prefer. Anywhere you'd like, for as long as I can manage to get away, just to... spend time as a family."

Narcissa kept her face down, towards the key, and managed a brief nod. Her throat felt constricted, and she worried her voice would break if she told him how unfathomably wonderful the notion sounded.

"What's it like there?" she asked instead. "I've not spent much time in the south-west of France."

"I've only been once or twice, when I was very young. It's near the Bay of Biscay, I mostly recall being out of doors... acres of wild greenery, streams... it was warm and quiet. Isolated."

Still staring down at the ornate key, she nodded again and reached out to gently squeeze his wrist in thanks. "It sounds perfect. I can hardly wait." With a swallow, Narcissa regained her composure and turned her face up to his with a tidy smile. "May I expect you for supper this evening?"

"I cannot tonight," he told her after a brief beat of hesitation. "I do sincerely wish I were able to join you, but I have a supper in town with Fudge and his Senior Undersecretary that is, I believe, of utmost importance... I think tonight might be crucial to enacting something that I've been hoping to set into motion since September..."

She wondered if he would share more, at last, but evidently he did not intend to do so today. She nodded and picked up Draco's letter once more. "I understand."

They remained silent until the end of the meal.

* * *

Due to their conversation over breakfast, Narcissa had known better than to hope to see him at supper, but still she did not make alternate plans. Truth be told, there was no one else she wished to see tonight. She did hope, however, that he might make an effort to come home to her soon afterwards, but by half ten she'd given up and retired to bed.

She'd had wine with dinner, and a glass after. Maybe two. She turned over and over beneath the sheets, tangling them, becoming too hot and kicking them off; becoming too could and pulling them back up over her body.

It had been a terribly long time since their bedding had been mussed by anything aside from sleeplessness.

With her eyes closed, Narcissa's mind began to wander, half longingly and half miserably, in inexorable reminiscence. This was the problem with birthdays, she believed. The way they forced nostalgia upon the unlucky individual; already she was unfortunate enough to be aging, but now her mind would insist on dredging up memories of happier times.

The last time she'd been happy had been at the Quidditch World Cup. Determinedly she pushed aside thoughts of the Dark Mark conjured in the sky, and instead dwelt on the night before. She'd been foolish to take for granted her husband's enduring devotion. Had she known that would be the last night of passion, would she have behaved any differently?

Unlikely. They never made love in half measures, and that night had been no exception. A soft sigh escaped hers as her fingertips recalled the path his had travelled. He had a famously quicksilver tongue, it could bend the ear of anyone in any position of authority and had earned him a place at the side of the most powerful wizard of their age— could anyone possibly doubt that it was less capable between her thighs? To have it snatched from her without warning... she could go mad at the injustice of it all.

The door to the bedroom swung open soundlessly, silhouetting her her husband against the torchlight of the room beyond. Guiltily, she whipped her hands from beneath the sheets, but it was of no use. Certainly he had seen her, undoubtedly he understood what he was interupting.

He did not speak and so she remained quiet as well, refusing to put words in his mouth as he swung the door closed behind him and crossed the room. Her heart hammered at his approach. They were in near total darkness so she could not distinguish the expression upon his face as he sat on the edge of her side of the bed, silent and unmoving as he pulled back the duvet.

The cool touch of leather against her midsection caused her to jump, but it warmed quickly to the temperature of her body as it moved downwards. Impersonal, but still a part of him, still something of the man she so desperately craved.

It wasn't nearly enough to bring her true contentment. She wanted his lips, his skin, his whole body pressed against her; when he was inside of her he quite literally became a part of her, and she felt confident in those moments that nothing would ever take him from her. This was far from that, but after a few breathless minutes, it was enough to bring her to climax, her eyes squeezing tightly shut and back arching as a her mouth formed the shape of his name.

Almost immediately, Narcissa felt hot mortification sweep over her. Faintly sickened by her behaviour, she drew her husband's glove off her own trembling hand. For a split second some perverse part of her considered leaving it in its current state for him to find and deduce what she'd done, but just as quickly she dismissed the idea and cast a quick cleaning spell on the leather before placing it back on the table by his side of the bed. Perhaps he would not have even noticed if she had not— though she quickly dispelled this notion. He was always immaculate in dress and appearance. But perhaps, worse still, he would not have cared, not enough to consider the implications. A brief mental image of disgust flashing over his features as he disdainfully held up a soiled glove was quickly forced aside.

_"You're almost forty Narcissa, perhaps I—"_

_No_. He hadn't meant that.

But he'd suggested they go on holiday Léon. He'd always hated France... did he not care, any longer? Was this some strange way of trying to foist her on another man? His jealousy had exasperated her for years, but in its absence, what was left? She knew, obliquely, that the Senior Undersecretary was a witch, though she'd never met or seen her in person before. If Narcissa found out that he was at a restaurant tonight, on her birthday, with a _beautiful_ witch, she was certain she'd murder the other woman.

Narcissa buried her face not into her pillow but into his to stifle an abrupt sob. She wanted to scream; crying felt like a reasonable alternative. She knew she was overreacting. She knew he would sneer to see her fall apart like this, but she felt unable to help herself. And he was not here.

Wiping her cheeks angrily, she rose to her feet and padded across the rug to retrieve the key he'd presented to her at breakfast. The ornate little piece of metal dug into her palm as she clenched her hand into a fist. Feeling rather lost, she carried it back with her to the bed, stubbornly replaying his words from that morning, and not allowing her mind to stray from his assurances: " _The key is a promise... spend time as a family... a promise..._ "

When she finally fell asleep, her grip had not yet loosened, though as everything else that evening, it was a paltry substitute for what she truly desired.

_Friday, 23 June 1995_

"It will happen tomorrow."

Narcissa's head jerked towards the door of their private parlour where Lucius had just appeared, looking grim. He did not need to clarify— he could only possibly be referring to the thing they had both been dreading, the inescapable eventuality that had been looming for nearly a year now. "Tomorrow?" echoed Narcissa in a harsh whisper. "But the final Triwizard Tournament task is tomorrow. He won't... not Hogwarts...?"

"No," Lucius assured her swiftly. "No, Hogwarts is the only place I believe we can safely assume he will _not_ be tomorrow. Not with Dumbledore and his entire staff plus half the Ministry there. Draco will be safe." _For now,_ lingered heavy and unspoken in the air between them. "Once he calls, if I should not return—"

"No," Narcissa cut in, sounding somewhat choked. She sprang to her feet and hurried across the room to grasp both his hands in hers, wanting to silence his terrible speculating. He pressed on anyway.

"If I should not return afterwards, I've left—"

"Lucius," she pleaded, "don't talk like that, I'm sure—"

"Stop interrupting me!" he snarled, jerking his hands out of hers and looking as though he might shove her away if she came close once more. She twisted her fingers together to stifle the impulse to touch him and went still. "Listen. I've left all the papers you need to access any of the family accounts in a box on my desk. It can only be opened with a drop of your blood or Draco's. Deeds to all our properties, bank information, everything is there. There is also..." he hesitated. "I wrote several notes. If it should turn out that you need to buy time and keep the Ministry from discovering the cause of my death, you can provide to the Aurors, or even the papers if you'd like, a letter written in my hand detailing the reasons for which I elected to take my own life."

Narcissa sucked in a quick gulp of air but resisted the need to speak until she was certain he was finished.

"There are several options... you should select whichever best suits the political climate." He swallowed but continued in the same, business-like tone. "Normally everything would pass directly to Draco, but I've drafted a last will and testament that ensures you will be the proprietor of everything I possess until Draco comes of age. It will pass all the normal verification charms, and though I falsified the notarisation, I did it very well and I doubt there is anyone that would contest it in court. If they do, I left the name of a notary public you can easily Confund to back up my claims if need be. It should smooth the way for you to handle matters legally before Draco is old enough to do so."

She dipped her head in acknowledgement, but also to hide the expression of horror on her face. It took an immense degree of concentration to remain focussed on his words, his calm explanations of where to find various account numbers, family records, and valuable artifacts he'd hidden away.

"There is a chance... that the Dark Lord will come here seeking an item that he gave me many years ago; a book. It has since been destroyed, and I will do the utmost that I can to ensure he knows that it is gone and I am at fault... but if he comes to the Manor seeking it, you can show him where it was hidden, in the chamber beneath the drawing room. Make no attempts to bar his access."

When she did not respond, Lucius prompted, "No attempts at all, do you understand?"

"Yes, Lucius," she muttered, not looking up. Her tongue felt thick. She did not want to anger him with the tears in her eyes.

"Narcissa," he murmured, and touched her gently beneath her chin to encourage her to tilt her face towards his. "It is a contingency plan. Obviously it is not the best case scenario, nor, I dare to hope, the likeliest one. But it is important that you and Draco remain safe even if I am no longer with you."

"Yes, Lucius," she chanted again, her head now lifted but eyes closed. Two tears seeped from beneath their lids.

"Hush," he scolded softly, wiping them away with his thumbs. "I have spent a good deal of time this year persuading Fudge that Ministry oversight is crucial at Hogwarts. After Draco sent us that letter about Moody transfiguring him, you recall? The Minister has always been paranoid that Dumbledore was after his job, and I've used that insecurity, combined with the negative publicity Rita has been generously showering on the headmaster's decisions this year, to plant a new notion. Mad-Eye agreed to stay for one year only. I believe Fudge will force his own choice for a replacement into the school next year, and I believe his choice will be a witch who is rather amenable to our efforts. You see, while she did not in the past support the Dark Lord, she reveres the old families and blood purity. I've spoken with her a number of times and I believe I am uniquely situated to influence both her appointment and actions once she is situated at the school, both directly and through Fudge."

Narcissa was unsure why he was telling her all of this now— did he truly expect her to care about his political machinations when the possibility of his death loomed over them? Certainly he did not believe she would have any interest in continuing them if he were killed? For months she had craved nothing more than to be privy to his planning, but now that he was at last revealing the entirety of his plans, it seemed pointless.

Sensing her confusion, Lucius carefully clarified: "It is my hope that, if I am able to guide a strong Ministry presence at Hogwarts next year, that Albus Dumbledore will be effectively neutralised. And this alone, I believe, would be sufficient motive for the Dark Lord to keep me both alive and in a position of favour within his ranks."

"Oh," Narcissa breathed, her fingers defying her at last and rising to grip the front of his robes. "It will?"

"Yes," he assured her firmly, cupping her face in his hands. "Now that's quite enough of the tears, do you understand?"

"Yes, Lucius," she agreed for a third time, much more eagerly now. Why had he not led with the fact that he had established a means to stay in the Dark Lord's good graces? What a comfort it would have been to know what he was working towards all this time. "Yes, of course." She even managed a small smile. She supposed he had not wanted to get her hopes up, had not wanted to offer false comfort if the ploy had turned out to be unsuccessful. "Is there anything else?"

And at last a shadow of a smirk turned the corner of his mouth upwards. It was not a true smile but she would take it; it had been so long since she'd seen even a mockery of happiness from him.

"Not about that, no." His arms wrapped around her waist, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world. "What I would like now is to spend the evening with my wife. With no distractions, no tears, no worry."

"Yes," she agreed with a hurried nod as she plucked him nearer, pressing the entire length of her body against his, her cheek tucked into his shoulder. "We ought—"

"And," he interrupted, placing a fingertip upon her lips, "no conversation."

* * *

Narcissa woke at dawn feeling sore but sated, and before consciousness fully gripped her she felt happier than she'd been in many months. But then the reason for the return of her husband's long-dormant passion returned to her, and iciness darted through her veins. _He'll be fine, he has a plan_. A quick glance in Lucius's direction ascertained that he still slept, but when she began to rise his hand extended to curl around her wrist.

"Narcissa."

He did not open his eyes but she could tell from the weight of each syllable in her name that he wished for her to stay. And so she obliged, slinking back beneath the sheets to curl her body to the warmth of his, nuzzling her cheek against the dusting of dark blond hairs on his chest. She'd fallen asleep still wrapped in his arms the night before, and so her own hair was in a wild disarray. Lucius gently raked the loose strands back from her face and pressed his lips to her forehead, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"Do you remember the day Draco was born?" he asked quietly. She gave a small, slightly choked laugh.

"Bits of it. I was given so many potions throughout the course of my labour, it's a bit of a haze."

Lucius nodded thoughtfully, his hand stroking up and down her back as he reminisced. "I never dreamt you'd give him my name," he admitted. "I don't think I ever told you what it meant to me. I wondered if you'd call him Regulus or Cygnus or Orion... when you said you'd decided he should be 'Draco Lucius Malfoy'..." he drifted off, his fingertips wandering aimlessly along her spine. "I loved you for many years before I told you," he went on. "Perhaps as early as Michaelmas the year you returned from France. But I'd never loved anyone before. I didn't know, and even when I began to suspect it, I could not fathom that you might return the sentiment, and so I denied it even to myself. There were times, such as the day of Draco's birth, that I thought perhaps you might. I did not believe even then that I would ever say it, though. Particularly not that I would ever admit to it before you did."

He paused then, lost in thought, and Narcissa confessed, "I knew I would not say it first, I had determined it. But there were many times that I thought you might say it when I would not, and you remained silent. And then when you finally told me you loved me, it was so unexpected."

He gave a short, sardonic chuckle. "It took me a good deal of time to trust you would not lord my love over me like a weapon." She smiled ruefully too: there was certainly a period of their marriage during which she would have considered doing precisely that. "But at last I realised that my fears were for naught. That there was no one else in the world so perfectly suited to be my wife, and that I had no choice but to admit to you that you held my entire world in those soft, pretty, deadly hands."

For some time Narcissa did not reply. She felt torn between letting the soft words wash over her, basking in and treasuring the verbal admission of his true feelings for her— feelings that she knew to her core he felt but he never voiced aloud— and protesting such a confession adamantly, as he was speaking like a man condemned to die.

"I don't know when I realised that I loved you," she offered candidly. "I so angry and hurt when you left me alone after our wedding, it was often a struggle those first few years for me to separate what I wanted to be true and what the truth really was. I was so infatuated with you in our school days, you see."

He drew back slightly to give her a wry, bemused smile. "Were you really?"

"Yes," she admitted with a smile of her own as he pulled her to his chest once more.

"Why have you never told me that before?" he asked, and she could tell by the rare pleasure in his voice, untainted by maliciousness, that she had made the right decision in doing so now.

"I thought at times the surely you knew, and perhaps that was why you were so unkind at first... that you considered me no better than the dozens of other girls who followed you around the castle with stars in their eyes, entirely beneath your notice."

Lucius chuckled and resumed stroking her hair. "Your sisters warned me off you your first year, did you know? And at twelve I had no desire to cross Bellatrix. And then... you were never beneath my notice, of course not. Once you were no longer a child, you were easily the most beautiful girl at Hogwarts. But, well... you had a reputation for being rather frigid, my darling."

"You never really tried," she teased, twining her legs with his and bringing herself even closer. "I thought Lucius Malfoy always went after what he wanted, and never lost."

"An illusion," he sighed, rolling over so she was pinned beneath him. His full weight bore down on her but she savoured the inescapable tangibility of his body pressing comfortingly upon her. "Lucius Malfoy is— or was, at least— simply very good at hedging bets." He buried his face in her neck, so his next words were muffled. "I've always been very risk-adverse, but it seems my gambling has caught up with me at last anyway."

Determined as she was to not allow herself to fall into his spiral of self-doubt, as she simply could not fathom the horror of him being correct, Narcissa instead focussed carefully on every detail of each sensation: the scent of his skin, the curve of his shoulder, the warmth of his kiss; every movement so familiar and easy and comfortable.

The Mark stood out in stark relief on his left forearm, and for a split second she did not ponder the dread of the thing, but rather allowed a sense of nostalgia wash over her. For a moment she was fifteen years younger, not yet a mother, lost in the tangle of emotions that had seemed of such import then but now seemed almost laughable— _then_ her greatest worries had been if her husband loved her, and whether she would soon be pregnant. Now, when she was in such danger of losing her husband and had no idea what her son's future held, she wished that she could escape to these milder concerns once more.

Lucius rolled over and sat up slowly, reaching for his wand. Narcissa felt she could have wept at the loss of him. "What time is it? Do you reckon the paper is here yet?" he yawned. " _Accio Daily Prophet_."

After several moments the pages soared into the bedchamber from the dining room several floors below. He caught it easily and flipped it upwards with a look of glimmering anticipation, and a hard, satisfied smirk curled the corner of his lips when he surveyed the article. Curious, Narcissa edged over to read as well, though she did not have to look past the headline to know why he wore such an expression:

"HARRY POTTER: "DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS"" the title shrieked, accompanied by a picture of the teen in which he started at the photographer in a rather shifty, malevolent manner.

"You've done it," she breathed, pushing herself up and leaning over his shoulder to read the text.

"You helped," he offered generously, pointing out the line quoting an unnamed Healer that drew the boy's mental stability into question. "As did Draco," he added, glancing at her face, wary of finding disapproval there. The quote from their son read much like his standard complaints at home. It was stunning to see beloved Harry Potter, the darling of the Ministry and Dumbledore's pet, censured openly on the front page of the the only major newspaper in the country. In less than a year, the 'Boy Who Lived' had transformed from a helpless orphan, desperate victim of a grueling competition, to a madman on the verge murdering his fellow competitors.

Only her husband could have orchestrated such a paradigm shift.

 _The Dark Lord should be pleased_ , she thought, but did not say aloud. Instead of returning to a public that adored and revered James and Lily Potter's half-blood brat, he would find the child that once thwarted him to be nothing more than an unstable adolescence without support. Surely it would make his task immeasurably easier? Surely he would be grateful for the time Lucius had spent preparing for his return? But she did not want to speak of the Dark Lord now.

The day seemed to last for a shining, golden age: Lucius smiled and made her laugh and did not answer nor send a single owl or floo. The spent every meal together and spoke of plans for the summer (after Léon they would go to Spain, then to Portugal so Draco could see his grandparents, then perhaps to Morocco); he showered her with more affection than he'd ever before showed her, rewarding her with soft caresses and light kisses to her forehead whenever she strayed near. It felt surreal, and she knew that he was giving her this day together as a gift, but would not dwell on the implications of receiving such a boon.

And yet, in a blink it was ending. Lucius paced the floor of their bedroom, fully robed and eyes fixed on the clock. He'd been doing so since shortly after nightfall. When he stopped abruptly just a few minutes short of midnight, he did not need to utter a word to let her know their waiting had, at last, come to its conclusion.

"You could flee." The words escaped her before she could stop them, a momentary fissure appearing in the blasé façade she had been fighting to maintain for his benefit in the sudden terror that he might Disapparate and never reappear. He gave a brief, humourless chuckle before slipping on his mask and disguising his features.

"My dear, the Dark Lord _may_ be calling me to kill me, but if I do not answer the summons he will do so for certain. And moreover he would not leave you and our son untouched in my absence, if he knew that I lived. He would harm you both to draw me out of hiding."

He did not say farewell, and he did not offer a final kiss. Lucius simply walked out of the room they'd shared for nearly two decades in silence, knowing the time to greet his fate had come at last.

A dizzying sense of alarm set in and Narcissa felt her knees give way. She landed heavily on the edge of the bed, her vision blurring and tunneling. Her face lowered slowly into shaking hands, and she sucked in quick breaths to attempt to stabilise herself.

Tonight her son was hundreds of miles away, watching the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. In a week he would board the Hogwarts Express and return home to find... what? That his father was dead and his entire life upended? Or instead would he meet his aunt and uncles for the first time since infancy, with Lucius placed once more at the Dark Lord's right hand? Would the Dark Lord have the power to attack the Ministry tonight, would their society be overturned in one swift blow?

Narcissa stood and moved towards the bath with a vacant, trance-like expression on her face. She need not suffer through this night, though a standard Calming Draught would be useless when she was in such a state. Calming Draughts were for school girls worrying over exams. Her hands moved through the cabinet of basic healing elixirs until her fingers pinched the tiny bottle they sought: a vial that held no more than a teaspoon of clear liquid. With a shuddering sigh, she conjured a glass and filled it with water, and very carefully added a single drop of the Draught of Living Death. She stoppered the bottle once more with deliberate motions and returned it to its shelf and took her drink over to the bed, slipping neatly beneath the sheets. One sip and she would fall into a deep slumber for at least the next eight hours within seconds, so she made sure to adjust the pillows strategically beneath her head, so that she might drop into the most comfortable position.

No more questions, no anxiety, no fear. It would be settled tonight, one way or another. Tomorrow she would know if her husband was safelly returned or if her worst fears had been realised.

She lifted the glass and took a long drink, scarcely having time to place it back on the table before darkness overtook her and she slid into oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sunday, 25 June 1995_

Narcissa awoke with a gasp, as though she'd been doused with icy water. Sunlight streamed through the windows of her bedroom, and before she could even quite remember why, her hands were scrabbling at the space beside her, desperately seeking her husband.

He was not there.

She twisted to stare in numb horror, but at once it was evident that he _had_ been there— the sheets were carelessly rumpled and his pillow bore a recent indentation from having been slept upon. She quickly checked the time and realised it was half past ten; she must not have sufficiently diluted the Draught of Living Death as she'd slept far longer than she had intended.

Atypically inelegant, Narcissa tumbled out of bed and, without bothing to summon a house robe or even slippers, she dashed out of her bedroom and through the manor, not pausing even to breathe until she flung open the door to his study and—

"Lucius!" she cried, and she might have flung herself into his arms had he not looked up from his papers with such a cool, quelling glance.

"Look who's managed to get out of bed at last," he drawled, and his eyes swept disdainfully from her mussed plait, to her exposed shoulders and knees, finally landing on her pale, bare feet. Instinctively, her toes curled in the thick rug she stood upon.

"You're home," she sighed, still too rapturously ecstatic to be offended by his dismissive attitude. "What happened?"

"What _happened_ ," Lucius replied sharply, setting his quill down with more force than necessary, "is that I returned hours ago to find you cold and unresponsive in our bed."

"Oh..." she faltered slightly, but quickly waved his words aside. "I didn't want to stay up the whole night worrying. I took a potion." She took several steps towards his desk but his expression did not soften, and in response she grew still as well, crossing her arms over her chest and wrapping around herself all the imperiousness she could muster in such a state of disarray. "I suppose it went poorly, then?" she asked archly, though it certainly could not have gone as poorly as she feared since he was sitting before her, whole and well.

Lucius looked furious for a moment, his jaw tight and eyes flashing. She felt distinctly that he was fiercely angry with her, but before she could ask what could possibly be the matter he exhaled and slowly shook his head, gaze dropping to the desk as his ire seemed to dissipate into disappointment. "He tried to kill Potter and was, once again, unsuccessful."

Her lips parted in shock. "All this time we've been so afraid, and he's vanished again? In just one night?"

"No," he replied irritably. "Potter escaped. Felix Felicis must run through that boy's veins, I've never seen such improbable luck in any person." He paused. "Go dress, Narcissa," he snapped, seemingly more perturbed by the fact by the fact that she'd come to his study in nightclothes than the fact the the Dark Lord had returned after a thirteen year absence.

"Potter escaped from where?" she demanded, ignoring his directive. "You were at Hogwarts after all?"

"No... a graveyard. Potter must have been brought there by a portkey, as that was his means of escape..."

At last he explained to her the strange story of how Peter Pettigrew of all people had found the Dark Lord in Albania, had helped create for him a rudimentary form that could be brought back to Britain, and finally how an ancient potion had restored him to a true body once more. And then the tale grew stranger yet: Barty Crouch Jr. was somehow alive still, disguised at Hogwarts for the year and secretly aiding the Dark Lord's agenda there. Finally he explained the duel; how Potter had been tortured but thrown off the Dark Lord's Imperius Curse, and then when the most powerful wizard of the age had sought to kill the bleeding, talentless boy... something unfathomable had occurred.

"I can scarcely describe it," Lucius admitted. By now Narcissa had wended her way across the room and stood at his side, her pale fingers resting gently at the nape of his neck. "There was a cage of light, and phoenix song... the wands were joined, and perhaps Potter managed to cast _Priori Incantatum_... he must have done, as the forms of the Dark Lord's final victims began to appear, but not in a manner I've ever seen..." He broke off for several moments, a baffled expression on his face. "Bertha Jorkins, the Potters, and others, as though they were ghosts... when the connection broke, the phantoms surrounded the Dark Lord, only for a moment but long enough for Potter to grab Diggory's body and summon the portkey to return to Hogwarts."

"But why on earth was the portkey enchanted for a round trip?" she asked indignantly, feeling her own frustration well at the description of Potter's flight from battle. "Why give him a means of escape to begin with?"

"I've no idea. Perhaps the Dark Lord intended to use it to send Potter's body back to Dumbledore? That would have been a very effective way to announce his return..."

A second, more terrible thought occurred to her. "Potter knows you, Lucius, he could tell Dumbledore and the Ministry that he saw you—"

"And I have no doubt that he will," Lucius cut in. "In fact, I know that he already has. I've had an owl from Severus this morning, it seems mine was the first name the boy gave." He did not look particularly concerned by this news. "It was of no matter. Do you recall the _Daily Prophet_ headline from yesterday's post? The Minister is convinced that the boy is mad, seeking nothing but attention and power for himself. I daresay my word will hold significantly more weight with Fudge, and Potter has no actual evidence that I was present last night."

He adjusted some papers on his desk before he continued. "It was rather a relief to receive Severus's owl. He did not appear with the rest when the Dark Lord called us, but if he is alive and writing missives this morning, he must have had a private audience with our Master and been found to be loyal still. No doubt he simply could not depart from the Hogwarts grounds without drawing suspicion until some time later."

Narcissa cared very little for her husband's friend's wellbeing when he himself might be in jeopardy. "Fudge did not believe Potter, but did Dumbledore?"

"Of course he did," Lucius replied breezily. "But it matters naught. Dumbledore will not be in charge at Hogwarts for much longer, if the Minister and I have any say in the matter. Which, as it so happens, we do. Or will, at least, when he finishes drafting Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two."

Narcissa could not muster the curiosity to ask about some dull piece of legislation they were concocting in this moment. "Have you been in contact with Rita, or anyone at the _Prophet_? How are they reporting the whole debacle?"

"I sent Rita an owl but haven't heard back yet... it's only been a few hours yet, and I said only that I'd heard from someone at Hogwarts that the Diggory boy had been killed... it wouldn't do to sound too apprised of the events of last night, of course."

"Of course," she agreed. "I can't believe little Barty is still alive," she mused as she sat down. She called for tea and, at last, a house robe and slippers. Lucius grimaced.

"Ah, well, unfortunately he's not. Severus mentioned that in his note as well... it seems Barty overplayed his hand and attempted to kill Potter when the boy returned. He was subdued by Dumbledore, but when Fudge went to question Crouch after the tournament, he brought a dementor for protection... the dementor Kissed Crouch on sight."

Narcissa shuddered and took a sip of her tea. "That _is_ unfortunate." She felt little genuine emotion towards the subject though; it was difficult to mourn someone she'd believed dead for over a decade, and who might have incriminated her husband. Secretly, ungenerously, she'd also always wondered if the boy had in some way contributed to the Lestranges' capture: Barty was young and inexperienced, perhaps it had been some error on his part that had led the Aurors to the group... she did not have the full details of what had happened that night.

It was easier to blame someone that was not her sister.

"I think Draco ought to know the truth of what happened," Lucius told her carefully. "Or at least part of it. There's no telling how Potter and Dumbledore will twist the facts of what has occurred, and the Ministry will likely not make any official statement."

Narcissa nodded rather resignedly.

"I'm going to write to him today," he went on. "I know there's only a week left in the term but I think it would be unfair to leave him in ignorance for that time."

"Whatever you believe best," she conceded. And then, although she knew it was a selfish, shallow question, likely to anger him, she could not stop it from bubbling to her lips: "Will we still go on holiday when Draco is back from school?"

"I think we'd better," he replied after a pause. "But perhaps somewhere a bit more public than Léon. It's probable that Dumbledore will reconvene the Order of the Phoenix, and if he does, it follows naturally that he'll send his spies to watch everyone Potter saw in the graveyard for any suspicious activity. A family holiday would be a perfect cover to show that the Malfoys are unconcerned by Potter's accusations, and will keep at least one or two Order members out of the country and on a fool's errand while we're away."

This was not precisely the answer she'd hoped for— after the past year she did not relish the thought of their time together being nothing more than a ruse to distract Order members— but it was better than the dismissal she'd been anticipating.

"Paris, then?"

_Monday, 3 July 1995_

They took apartments on the Rue de Rivoli, overlooking the Tuileries Gardens and just beyond that, the Seine. Narcissa had only caught her husband sneering once upon entering the Rococo rooms— and of course they _were_ overdone, especially in comparison to more reserved early Romanesque style of Malfoy Manor, but she didn't care. After his initial, fleeting reaction he disguised his disdain impeccably, allowing both her and Draco to enjoy their lodgings, and she was appreciative of his efforts.

They dined out extravagantly, careful to be seen at the busiest of restaurants by the most important people. Lucius made several apearances at the _Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France,_ through introductions Narcissa made to the more powerful husbands of her childhood friends. On occasion, late in the evening, Lucius would leave quite suddenly and without explanation, and she knew he was answering a summons from the Dark Lord.

On this particular evening, the Malfoys enjoyed a lovely meal together at a bistro Narcissa had been longing to try for some time after hearing a stellar review from the wife of the _Prophet's_ restaurant critic, and Lucius departed afterwards to meet with a man selling some items of dubious legality.

Narcissa and Draco headed back to the _hôtel_ on foot rather than by Apparition to enjoy the balmy summer night. They were discussing his his upcoming term when they entered the study. Draco wandered over to the window and pushed the shutters wide.

"If it's alright," he told her, "I'd like to stay in contact with Rita Skeeter— Father doesn't always say what the Ministry is up to, even though he knows, and talking to her was a direct line, and I got to be a part of it too... I know he had to take over things when he was fourteen, when Grandfather was accused of poisoning the Minister, and I think I could start to be more involved in things as well outside of Hogwarts..." he trailed off hopefully.

"You must keep in mind that you'll sit your O.W.L.s this year, it will be stressful enough without worrying too much about what's going on at the Ministry. I know you had a bit of fun last year chatting with Rita, but this year it might be best if you focus on your studies." Her brow creased slightly. "Your father didn't exactly relish taking on those responsibilities when he was so young, however well he might be suited to them now. And moreover, no one has heard from Rita since she wrote the article published in the _Prophet_ the morning of the final Triwizard task."

"It's only been a few weeks though, hasn't it? Maybe she's researching something new," Draco proposed, eyes flickering over the glowing cityscape, coming to rest across the river on an illuminated Beaux-Arts edifice.

"The Gare d'Orsay," Narcissa explained quickly, glad to change the subject. "Or..." her she pursed her lips, thinking. "I believe the Muggles turned it into a museum a few years ago." She brightened and brushed a lock of platinum hair back from his forehead. "Perhaps we should go see it tomorrow while your father is out."

He nodded absently, leaning forward on his elbows into the warm summer air, frowning slightly at the Muggles passing and chattering on the pavement below. Neither of them heard the door to the study open over the sounds of automobiles rumbling past.

"Draco," Lucius called carelessly from the interior. "Would you care for a glass of scotch as well?"

Draco's head lifted and he turned quickly with a grin, managing to avoid spying his mother's immediate scowl of disapproval. "Yes, Father," he answered eagerly, not quite mastering nonchalance as he hurried across the room to accept the crystal tumbler from Lucius. Narcissa opened her mouth to protest but, upon spotting the extremely modest measure he'd allotted for their son, settled for a small sniff of objection.

"He's fifteen now, darling," Lucius pointed out expansively, pouring himself a far more generous portion and moving to sit by the fire. Draco sat as well, looking exceptionally pleased, and, unwilling to be the cause of his disappointment, Narcissa instead poured herself a goblet of wine and joined them.

"How was your appointment with the Dark Artefact dealer?" she asked as she settled into a bergère across from her husband.

"Not terribly productive," he drawled lazily, "but there were a few items of interest."

Lucius described several of the more intriguing pieces he'd seen, including a pair of _Nábrók_ and a goblin-forged blade the dealer had called _Sauvagine_ and swore had once belonged to a knight of Charlemagne, giving no indication whether he'd actually decided to purchase them. He then proceeded to explain on an unrelated note that the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, Griselda Marchbanks, was also in Paris on holiday, and that he'd invited her for supper the following evening. He requested Narcissa have the elf set an extra plate, but gave Draco a particularly meaningful look that was clearly intended to remind him that their guest oversaw the O.W.L.s each year and he'd do well to make a positive impression.

"I'm going to answer some post," Lucius announced a while later, rising easily to his feet. "And then I'll have a bath and retire early, I believe," he went on. A barely-quirked brow in Narcissa's direction went unnoticed by their son, and he strode from the room. Several minutes later, the snifter of scotch bobbed obliging out the door after him.

To Narcissa's mingled amusement and relief, it took Draco nearly an hour to finish even the small bit of scotch Lucius had poured for him. Quite frankly, it was rather reassuring to see he had not inherited his father's proclivity for drinking, and she suspected he was not merely moderating bad habits in her presence.

From the stories Draco shared, Narcissa felt that Slytherin had altered greatly since her days at Hogwarts. In some ways this was for the better; though she knew it was inevitable that he was growing into a man, she did not relish the thought of him being tempted by the decadent and dangerous recreations the Slytherin common room had once offered.

She could recall seeing her classmates drunk more times than she could count, not in small part due to the fact Rabastan would sneak to Hogsmeade for firewhiskey whenever supplies ran short; in her mind's eye she could still vividly picture Rodolphus snorting powered dragon claw from the cool black obsidian of a tabletop and taking Merlin-knew-what illegal potions that turned his eyes glassy and his temperament more unpredictable than usual; Bellatrix hexing an unfortunate Hufflepuff first year she'd found lost in the dungeons to eat and eat until the boy was sick all over himself as entertainment... these were things that she was glad seemed to have fallen out of fashion.

But in many ways, the more important aspects of her time as a student had been lost to him as well. The old, great pureblood houses had been dwindling in both size and power for decades, but the Dark Lord's disappearance and the subsequent arrest of his supporters had done more than rob her of her family and her social circle: it had curtailed the next generation of purebloods severely.

Before everything had gone so terribly wrong, it had seemed Draco would have numerous cousins. Andromeda should have married Evan Rosier instead that Mudblood, Rabastan was on the cusp of proposing to Ghada Shafiq, and Bellatrix and Rodolphus had even been coming around to the idea of being parents. Perhaps half a dozen or more children that would never be born, would never even be conceived, that should have been her son's family and classmates. The theoretical loss was almost as painful as what had actually been taken.

"Are you alright, Mum?" Draco asked quietly, and Narcissa blinked and forced a reassuring smile.

"Of course. Just... lost in thought."

He nodded, and then ventured, "There's a Quidditch shop here that's meant to be much better than the one in Diagon Alley— I was wondering if we might go tomorrow? After the museum," he added quickly, and her smiled softened indulgently.

"Of course, love. I want to take you shopping for new robes as well, you're getting so tall, and the shops in London are nothing by comparison... but we needn't fit everything into one day."

Draco seemed happy at the prospect— she wondered if he would try again to persuade Lucius to let him have a Firebolt over breakfast— and he bid her goodnight with a peck on the cheek. She finished her wine in pensive solitude, pondering more of what might have been and whether if her husband was still answering owls. She concluded at last that it did no good to wonder: here she was in her favourite city in the world, with a son and husband she was unreasonably fortunate to have. Things might be worse for others, but she'd been a Malfoy for too long to fathom that anything of the sort might spoil her own happiness... not now that the Dark Lord had returned and still their family remained unscathed.

"There you are," Lucius groused as she appeared in the doorway of the bath a short while later. "I've had to charm the water warmer twice already waiting for you."

Narcissa merely smiled and slipped off her robe to join him in the large tub. "Grumble if you must," she purred, "but I don't think you really find it so terrible here."

"I don't think anywhere to be so terrible, so long as you are there with me," he confessed, pulling her close with a low groan of contentment, "but that Fragonard in the entry hall is utterly repulsive."

"Hush," she chided, quelling his complaints with a small kiss. She felt lazy and blissfully at ease, the warm and perfumed water making her indolent. "We could stay here forever," she murmured against his cheek.

"No," he contradicted, "we can stay here until Saturday next. I need to be back home before August; there will be a great many goings on at the Ministry."

"What sort?" she pouted, knowing she sounded petulant but correctly guessing he would allow it as she draped her body over his. He took his time before answering, his fingertips roaming unhurriedly along her back and shoulders, stroking her neck and skimming downwards over her navel. A heat that had nothing to do with the steaming water curled pleasantly in her lower abdomen, but before she could be distracted she prompted, "what sort?" once more.

"The Dark Lord desires to acquire something that is being held in the Department of Mysteries," he replied, clearly not as willing to be distracted from carnal enjoyments as she; his lips were at her throat.

"Oh?" she asked, real curiosity lacing the word even as she tilted her chin back to allow him better access. She knew almost nothing about went on in the Department of Mysteries— no one did.

"Yes, a prophecy." With reluctance he drew away at last to elaborate. "Unfortunately, Dumbledore's lackeys have caught word of his desire to get ahold of the prophecy, and have set up an irritatingly omnipresent rotation of guards at the entrance to the department at all hours..."

"They keep prophecies there?" she asked, imagining a well full of memories like a vast Pensieve that one could dip into and learn of the future.

"Yes. Very well protected even without the issue of the Order's watchful gaze, it seems. The Dark Lord has asked that I bewitch an Order member on guard to retrieve it for him... and though I have no problem with accessing the Ministry, naturally, there is very little reason for me to be on Level Nine... but no matter, an occasion will present itself, and I will find the opportunity, I'm certain."

He shifted slightly to draw her onto his lap, and his arms snaked around her waist. "An opportunity will present itself," he repeated confidently, "or I shall create one."

"Hmm," Narcissa agreed with a little smile as his searching caress brushed the side of her breast. "If only someone you knew were being arrested," she sighed, "it would solve all your problems."

Lucius stilled; at last she'd captured his full attention with her words once she no longer desired his focus there. "What do you mean?"

"Only that the court rooms are down on the level below."

"Yes," he agreed slowly, "but those haven't been used since..."

Neither needed to be reminded of the last time the dungeon-like court rooms had been put to use; neither wanted to relive the the horror of the Lestranges' trial.

"I shouldn't have brought it up," she said quickly, rather flustered. "It was a tasteless jest."

He did not answer immediately and his hands remained motionless upon her body. She twisted to look up at his face, and also prompt him to resume his ministrations.

"They haven't been used in over a decade, but that doesn't mean they _cannot_ be. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement sees a handful of criminal cases every month; generally they happen in an office on Level Two but there's no reason they shouldn't hold them in the old chambers..." he was frowning thoughtfully. "Of course it would have to be a case of sufficient magnitude to bring the full court in... or sufficient _interest_..."

Speaking of interest, Narcissa felt that his had been off of her for far too long. After all, it was meant to be their holiday. She craned her neck to press her lips to his, effectively silencing him.

_Saturday, 12 August 1995_

Since the first week of August, when Lucius had returned home with news that Harry Potter was facing expulsion due to a violation of the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, Draco had been very nearly beside himself with glee. By the day the trial arrived, he could scarcely sit still through breakfast, and Lucius had to remind him, yet again, that it was unlikely that the conviction would hold. Still, Lucius left soon thereafter to find out for himself how the entire spectacle played out.

Narcissa, of course, knew that he had ulterior motives for visiting the Ministry during the hearing. There would be far heavier foot traffic on Level Nine than usual this morning, and perhaps his only opportunity for not needing to justify his presence outside the Department of Mysteries. Potter's educational fate was of relatively little import given his overall objectives for the day. Still, she still could not suppress the shiver of absolute fury she felt each time she thought of Potter— she might care very little if he was expelled for using magic in front of Muggles, but she felt he deserved far worse than expulsion for hexing her son at the end of the school term.

When she had gone to meet the train in June, Draco had emerged from the Hogwarts Express well after the platform had emptied, bruised and disheveled. Though she'd argued with Lucius about it earlier in the day, she was immensely grateful that he'd not been able to come with her to collect him from the station. Instead she was able to quietly heal her son's bruises while he ranted about Potter, the Weasleys, and their unprovoked attack.

It was not difficult for Narcissa to despise the boys on her son's behalf, though her gentle suggestions that he find ways to avenge himself that did not involve outright duelling seemed to fall on deaf ears. He was outnumbered by the Gryffindors, especially given that Vincent and Gregory could hardly string together a hex between the two of them. Moreover, duelling was the best way to attracting negative attention from professors, and frankly Narcissa found it to be rather barbaric and never engaged in the practice herself. Draco did not seem to recognise that he could, he _should_ , achieve his ends through means that did not endanger his well being.

Lucius returned in time for supper with the long-awaited updates from the day.

"Naturally Potter wormed his way out of a conviction," he announced brusquely. "Dumbledore made an appearance, and apparently swayed enough of the court to believe his lies..."

"It _was_ lies, then, what Potter was saying?" Draco prodded. "There were no dementors in a Muggle town?"

A ghost of a smirk flitted over Lucius's face, but he suppressed it as he took a bite of roast chicken. "It matters naught if what he said was a lie," he replied once he'd swallowed. "It is only important that that is what everyone believes." He glanced over at Narcissa. "I also came across Sturgis Podmore on Level Nine."

"Who's that?" Draco asked before his mother could reply.

"He's... a wizard who was two forms below me at Hogwarts," Narcissa relied carefully. "However he was in Ravenclaw, so I never knew him well. You father has had several encounters with him in the past though."

"He's one of Dumbledore's men," Lucius clarified, less concerned with concealing the true nature of his dealings from their son than Narcissa. "Or at least, he _was_. He'll be acting on behalf of the Dark Lord from now on... unbeknownst to Podmore." He offered his son a conspiratorial wink, and Draco grinned back at him.

"Really," Narcissa huffed, taking a sip of wine. "I hardly think this is appropriate conversation for supper. Lucius, have you any idea why the booklists have not arrived yet? They're normally here by now, and with this being Draco's fifth year..." she trailed off meaningfully.

"Professor Snape already as good as told me I'll be made prefect," Draco reminded her, sounding supremely unconcerned.

"They won't go out until the staffing for the year is complete. Dumbledore still has not agreed to hire Dolores Umbridge as the Defence Against the Dark Arts position this year, despite finding no one else willing to take on the role. It's settled on the Minister's side, but it's seeming more and more likely that he'll have to pass an Educational Decree to force through an appointment. A shame, really, I've always found her to be such an amenable woman."

"I see. Well hopefully it will happen soon. I wonder how the papers will frame the hearing, if they cover it at all?" Narcissa mused aloud.

"Do you know, I've finally heard back from Rita. She told me she's decided to take a year off from reporting, can you fathom a stranger turn of events? At the very height of her popularity, when she's finally achieved the notoriety she's been chasing for so many years... but it's no matter, others have and will continue to take up the mantle."

"I suppose she made a tidy sum for her last article on Potter?" Narcissa guessed. "Perhaps she's taking that and going on holiday."

"I suppose... but gold's never seemed to be what she's really after..."

Narcissa merely arched a skeptical brow at him. In her experience, everyone was after gold in some manner or another. Even her husband, who had been born with more of it than he could reasonably spend if he lived for half a millennium, had devoted much of his life to carefully tending and growing the vast sum through investments.

"Regardless," he went on, "doubt we'll see anything published about it. It will give no one any great pleasure to read that Potter has face no repercussions for his actions and Dumbledore continues to hold so much sway over the Wizengamot."

Draco scowled down at his plate, a fact that did not go unnoticed by either of his parents.

"Don't sulk, Draco," Lucius admonished sternly, but after a moment the corner of his mouth curled upwards. "No repercussions _yet_."

_Friday, 1 September 1995_

Narcissa was disappointed to find her husband in a rather sour mood the morning they were to take Draco to the train. As he dressed, he explained to her shortly that Podmore had been arrested the night before; it seemed that, despite guarding the Hall of Prophecy, the Order of the Phoenix member could not actually access the door without triggering a Secrecy Sensor that had alerted Aurors to his activities.

"I'll have to curse an Unspeakable, it'll take weeks to find one alone and wandering about..." he shook his head irritably. "But Podmore won't speak a word of his motives, even if they manage to break my Imperius Curse he'd have to reveal Order secrets... I daresay he's looking at at least six months in Azkaban. One less fool of Dumbledore's patrolling the Ministry is hardly a loss."

"I'm sure, darling, but please try to be a bit more pleasant at breakfast, won't you? I'd hate for Draco to be sent off to school thinking you were upset with him for some reason, especially after the wonderful news we received yesterday morning." Narcissa smiled fondly at the thought of the shining badge that had accompanied the short booklist.

Lucius said nothing as he fastened the cufflinks of his robes.

"Perhaps we ought to get him something as a small treat for all his hard work," she prompted gently, coming to stand behind him and dusting an imaginary crease from his shoulder.

Lucius turned to face her with a scowl. "Not you too now? I'm not giving him a new broom until he proves he can fly the damned one he already has. He can have a Firebolt when Slytherin wins the House Cup."

"Oh, very well," she huffed, stepping away to instead fix her hair before the mirror. "Something else, then."

"What else could we possibly give him that you don't already buy for him the moment it occurs to you he might want it?" Lucius grumbled under his breath, moving away to put on his shoes.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at his retreating back. He had not said a word about their shopping while they were in Paris, but she'd had an inkling it had nettled him to see them return home with so many parcels.

Still, it was a fair point. She could not immediately think of anything Draco might want that he did not already possess.

"A watch?" she suggested after a lengthy pause.

"When he comes of age," Lucius replied disinterestedly, "as is traditional."

"I have my father's signet ring."

"It has your family's crest on it— he's not a Black, he's a Malfoy. Why would he want that?"

"Well _you_ come up with something then!" she snapped, her patience dwindling as she bristled at the casual insult to her lineage.

"Why are you so determined to reward Draco for doing no more than is expected of him?" Lucius retorted. "Your tendency to laud mediocrity has made him soft. If he had not been made prefect it would be an embarrassment, he does not require further praise for his middling academic performance and a minor accolade."

Narcissa's mouth was pinched into a pale line of rage. "Fine," she conceded in an icy tone as she turned back to the mirror and continued arranging her hair. "But if he's made Head Boy, you're buying him the best racing broom on the market. If they've come out with something better than a Firebolt by then, that's what he'll have."

"Dumbledore will never make him Head Boy," Lucius scoffed dismissively.

"Dumbledore made _you_ Head Boy!" she exclaimed in furious disbelief, tossing her hairbrush aside in a fit of pique, knocking over and shattering several ornate glass vials on the surface of the vanity.

" _Slughorn_ made me Head Boy," he corrected, twitching his wand in the direction of the mess she'd made. The perfume bottles sprang at once back into their original shapes. "And he certainly would not have had the authority to do so if any of Dumbledore's favourites had been in my year— if Frank Longbottom had been born just a few months earlier, for instance..."

Narcissa opened her mouth, an angry reply gathering at her lips as he crossed the room towards her, but something about his statement stopped her. With some effort she set his sneering tone aside and considered instead his words, the agitated way he was flicking his wand over the puddles on the gleaming surface of her dressing table so that each perfume separated itself and returned to its ampoule...

"Are you worried Draco's academic career has reached its zenith?" she guessed slowly, reaching up to touch his arm. "Are you hesitant to put too much weight on this appointment because you do not want him to be let down if he is not made Head Boy in two years and Potter is instead?"

Though he did not answer, she hoped she was correct and his dismissiveness was merely a poorly expressed attempted at sheltering their son from future disappointment, but it was entirely possibly he was merely still irritable over Podmore's failure.

"Besides," she added with a coy smile, reaching around him to lift one of the newly-repaired bottles and dabbing its contents to her throat. "Dumbledore may be dead by Draco's seventh year."

This speculation did seem to cheer him somewhat, or at the very least it removed the edge from his sullen temper. He was quiet and distant at breakfast, though Draco seemed not to notice as he spoke eagerly about the upcoming year. He was already wearing his school robes, and his prefect badge gleamed impressively on his chest.

The family Apparated to the station shortly before eleven, and Lucius stood a few paces away looking bored while Narcissa verbally confirmed that Draco hadn't forgotten anything— a ritual Narcissa knew her husband found exceptionally irritating as they could easily owl him anything he'd left behind. It comforted Narcissa, however; she appreciated the reassurance that, even if her son was not in her immediate care, he had everything he could possibly need close at hand.

Lucius's gaze suddenly became sharp and predatory, moving with an expression akin to disbelief as he tracked the movement of something beyond her shoulder. Curious, Narcissa turned to spy the Potter boy walking across the platform with a cadre of known Order members along with the Weasley brats and the bushy-haired Mudblood her son so despised. It was an incongruously large party, but that did not account for her husband's thinly veiled shock.

"Foolish, foolish man," Lucius breathed, and his surprise melted into a cruelly satisfied smile. "Darling," he added in a low but mockingly affectionate tone as he turned to his wife. "I don't suppose you were anticipating a family reunion at the platform today?"

For a split second her eyes bulged, and she looked wildly around— he'd told her it would be happening as soon as the Dark Lord had brought the dementors under his command, but to see Bellatrix _here_ , in front of so many witness, surely...

But he was not watching her sister. The Lestranges were not freed yet. Instead he'd honed in on a huge, shaggy dog who had just jumped up to place its forepaws upon Potter's shoulders.

"Oh," she could not keep the arch dislike from her voice, and turned away with a sniff. " _Him_."

"Who are you talking about?" Draco demanded, craning his neck and making a face of extreme distaste upon apprehending the group.

"That dog," Lucius announced smugly before he could catch Narcissa's warning look to stay silent, "is the Animagus form of Harry Potter's godfather, and your mother's dear cousin Sirius Black." He dropped his voice lower still in case anyone was listening. "Pettigrew told us... but I'd never dream he'd be foolish enough to parade about with Potter in broad daylight, in front of half the wizards in Britain..."

"On to the train, Draco," Narcissa spoke quickly, giving him a final peck on the cheek and sweeping him towards the scarlet steam engine with her fingers wrapped around his upper arm. "Owl us and let us know all about your first day a prefect, I can't wait to hear every detail—"

"For fuck's sake," Lucius grumbled, taking her elbow to gently dislodge her grasp from their son. "I was a prefect, I can fill you in on the tedium. Draco," he added, somewhat more firmly. "Have a good year, stay in contact, stay on good terms with the new Defence professor." He gripped Draco's shoulder briefly and then stepped back.

"Yes Father," he agreed obediently. "Bye Mum," he added with a quick smile as he hopped onto the train just as the wheels began to turn.

Narcissa raised her hand in farewell but Lucius merely inclined his head, and his gaze twitched from their vanishing son to the great black dog gamboling down the platform.

"Suppose I—"

"No," Narcissa snapped, linking her arm with his. "Don't you dare cause a scene." She did not add how foolish it would be for him to take on half a dozen witches and wizards, all of whom were presumably members of the Order of the Phoenix. She could see him cataloging each in turn: there was Mad-Eye Moody, the real one and not Barty Crouch, she supposed... the Weasleys, the werewolf Lupin, and an old woman with tightly curled grey hair and an odd purple hat that she did not recognise but she imagined that he would.

At her behest Lucius remained still, but did not Disappartate from the platform, taking her Side-Along, until Sirius had trotted through the barrier with his remaining human escorts.

"Incredible," Lucius shook his head in wonderment as they entered the manor. "I must send an owl..." But he paused, softening his tone in deference to her forlorn expression. "Now, don't fret. He'll be home at Christmas this year."

"Christmas is months away," she sighed miserably, and Lucius, in a vastly improved mood from that morning and uncharacteristically affectionate, pressed a comforting peck to her forehead. She supposed he was elated to be able to share the news of having spotted Sirius with the Dark Lord or perhaps even the Ministry.

Her blood simmered at the thought of her disowned cousin. "I wish Sirius had died instead of Regulus," she snapped, outrage at the injustice searing through her. "I wish he'd never been born at all. How is it fair that he lived when Regulus did not? Why should he be the last of my family's name? How is it fair that _he_ escaped Azkaban when my sister is still imprisoned..."

She turned her face up to Lucius, tears of frustration shimmering in her eyes. "Why hasn't he set them free yet?" she hissed, and it was clear that the 'he' to who she referred was no longer her traitorous cousin. "She was entombed alive for her love of the Dark Lord, and he's been back for months, and he's left her there..." Even alone, in their home, she dared not utter these words at any volume above a whisper. She had been aching to ask since the day after Lucius had safely returned safely from the graveyard, and she could stop herself no longer.

"I cannot speak of the timing of the Dark Lord's plans," he told her quietly, taking her into his arms as he spoke. "But I know without a doubt that your sister will be returned to you. You must understand the advantages of the Ministry ignoring the Dark Lord's return, and given Potter's escape after the Triwizard Tournament he needs to use anonymity in a manner he had not anticipated. However, there will come a time that the blind eye of the Ministry will no longer be more valuable to his plans than having the Lestranges, and many others, back at his side. And that day will come soon. You need not fear. I cannot promise that you will see her again before the end of this year, but if I were to guess, I shouldn't think you'll have to wait much longer than that."

She nodded. "You said before that the dementors would join the Dark Lord... have they, yet? Have they left Azkaban and broken away from the Ministry? Was it at your behest that Potter was set upon by a pair of them?"

Lucius frowned slightly. "It was not, as a matter of fact. Of course the Dark Lord would have been pleased had they accomplished their task, but they are still under Ministry control. I thought perhaps Fudge... but he was so incredulously delighted to hear the news, and the man is a very poor actor... I do not think he gave the order either. I _did_ suggest that they hold the trial in the dungeon courts, to give me an opportunity to be down on Level Nine to curse Podmore, but no. I had nothing to do with ordering the dementors after Potter, and I am confident the Dark Lord would have entrusted no one else to do so."

He hesitated. "It's of some concern, I've been looking into the matter but not closely; there are more pressing issues at hand."

"The prophecy?" she prompted.

"Yes. Tell me, you don't know anyone connected to Broderick Bode, do you?"

"I've never heard the name, but I could ask around," she offered, but Lucius was already shaking his head.

"Don't. I've been thinking about it all morning, and I believe he is the least connected Unspeakable— family dead, no discernible friendships. An ideal target, but his home will be well-protected." Lucius shook his head. "Avery has been adamant all along that an Unspeakable needs to be the one to retrieve it, I hate to see how smug he'll be when he finds out I've no other option."

"Why not just start with Bode?" she asked, trailing after him into his study. Lucius sat at the large, stately desk and pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and quill.

"The Order has been guarding the door to the Department of Mysteries under Disillusionment Charms and Invisibility Cloaks. They're not meant to be there either— Podmore's arrest won't result in an inquiry, it will be treated as a standard burglary attempt. At this point we're trying to interfere as little as possible with any members of the Ministry, given that they're working so hard against Dumbledore on their own accord."

Narcissa peered over his shoulder and saw that he was writing to Severus, detailing the events on the platform. "I don't know anyone who would be happier to see your cousin dead than Severus," he told her as ink scrolled across the page in his elegant script.

"I can think of a few people," Narcissa retorted darkly. "Aren't you worried the owl might be intercepted though?"

"No." He pulled a small, stoppered bottle from a drawer in his desk and uncorked it, letting a a few drops fall upon the words he'd written there. They vanished at once. "The writing will reappear when Severus adds the second potion. He invented the concoctions, there's virtually no risk anyone else would be able to duplicate it, or even think to try upon looking at a blank sheet of parchment."

"Clever," Narcissa murmured, her eyes on the tiny crystal vial. "Say... did you do something with my Draught of Living Death?" It occurred to her that she hadn't seen the potion in months, not since she'd taken it the night of the Dark Lord's return.

"I got rid of it," he replied, unabashed. "If you cannot be responsible with its dilution, I don't want you taking it."

Narcissa's brow drew down sharply and she opened her mouth to protest his condescending, controlling behaviour, but she hesitated when he took her hand gently and pressed a small kiss to her fingers.

"It's too dangerous. Take something else. I won't have Draco orphaned because your hand slipped over a glass of water and you took two drops of a sleeping draught instead of one."

"I only overslept by a few hours... what do you mean, 'orphaned'?"

He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, not releasing her hand. "Come now, darling, don't be naïve. Do you think the Dark Lord will be content with any less than he had before his disappearance? Do you think he will spend another ten years regaining power? Of course not. He will act swiftly this time. There will be a war, and it will happen soon."

He turned his face up to hers with a smile so sad she felt her breath catch.

"I am not as young as I was the last time, you know. And I have infinitely more to lose."

When Narcissa spoke, her voice was no more than a murmur. "You never used to talk like this. Not once, the last time."

"I never fathomed I would still be fighting at forty-one," he replied bluntly. "Quite frankly, I didn't think I'd be doing any fighting after Draco was born, the Dark Lord's path to victory seemed so assured. My gods, I was nineteen when I took the Mark. I thought I was invincible. I hated my father and never for a moment considered that my choices might endanger a family I actually cared for one day."

Narcissa stroked his hair tenderly back from his forehead. It was a simple, soothing gesture that she'd used to calm their son since infancy; she found it worked wonders on her husband as well. "We'll be perfectly fine, Lucius," she assured him. "The Dark Lord trusts you above all others, and our family is not in jeopardy. If he succeeds, your status will be unparalleled. If he fails... well, you have enough clout with the Minister that I foresee no issue there either." She leaned forward to brush her lips to his temple and repeated: "We will all be perfectly fine."

In that moment, she sincerely believed the words to be true.


End file.
